Lineage VIII
by ruth baulding
Summary: AU! Jedi Apprentice. BOOK 8: Hard on the heels of the mission to Apsolon, master and apprentice find new troubles - in their own backyard. Jenna Zan Arbor faces prosecution for her crimes; the Jedi grapple with the disastrous realities of corruption and personal loss; Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon undertake perilous and disparate quests.
1. Chapter 1

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The topmost spire of the Jedi Temple rose, majestic and tranquil, from the pyramid's center, a beam of light ossified in purest white marble, surmounted by a single chamber with transparent walls. From this eyrie the entire sprawling city planet, the coruscating ocean of light and life, appeared to spread in concentric ripples outward from the Temple precinct, the entire galactic Republic beneath the watchful eyes of its appointed guardians. From this vantage point, the horizon was clearly visible in every direction, curving gently at the periphery of vision, giving the illusion that the megalopolis might at any moment slide over the rim of its own terraced immensity and into inky night. There were no stars visible, due to the ambient radiance from the endless city of three trillion inhabitants; the solitary observer enclosed in the tower's topmost turret seemed to float above the galaxy itself, a super-celestial power peering down upon the affairs of mortals, upon the vast machinations of the Force itself.

And if vertigo ensued, he might rely upon the anchor of deeply ingrained words, of a mantra reaching back to the foundations of individual memory, of the carefully measured rhythm of his own breaths to hold him in place while the giddy world reeled about its placeless center, while time perpetually unraveled toward its infinite vanishing point, while the past and future collapsed into the absolute singularity of Light.

And when the meditative trance was ended, and the lonely observer once again opened his eyes to realize that the luminance within was matched by a morning splendor that set the inlaid floor and the pale roof awash in blinding white and gold, he might find his feet again, albeit a trifle shakily, and he might raise the cowl of his hood over his head in deference to that Force which indwelt and flowed through and bound all things together, and he might descend by the same time-worn steps that had carried him to this sanctuary the evening previous, a solitary pilgrim in ritual observance of a long-established custom.

And when he again reached the base of the tower, and quotidian existence, he might hurry to find another blessed like himself - bound to the same path but further ahead on the journey- with whom to share the wondrous things he had learned. And so the day might begin anew: a young life marking the passage of another year, another step toward wisdom.

* * *

"Master?"

Obi-Wan absently deposited his cloak on the nearest solid object, which happened to be the floor, and strode through the small and obviously unoccupied apartment to the balcony, where he half-expected Qui-Gon Jinn to be waiting for his arrival.

The obvious _absence_ of the Jedi master's bright Force signature seemed in manifest and absurd contradiction the self-evident fact that he _should _ be there.

The Padawan stood upon the empty balcony, frowning. It was _well_ past the customary hour for breakfast – closer, indeed, to noon – and Qui-Gon _always_ observed this humble but meaningful ritual with him. Even last year, when they had spent Obi-Wan's seventeenth life-day in a prison cell on Uutamu – due to an unfortunate diplomatic _misunderstanding- _the Jedi master had managed to concoct an ad hoc celebration involving a battered deck of sabaac cards, a half-pint of bootlegged Corellian brandy and a well-placed mind trick that had eventually led to their escape. He passed back into their hushed quarters, noting that tea had been made and consumed, but no second cup set out for his use.

He even checked the master's private sleeping room, on the unlikely theory that the tall man was unaccountably laid up in bed and shielding so strongly that he could not be detected by his own apprentice.

The young Jedi rubbed at his suddenly growling stomach. His vigil had been completed while fasting, as was traditional; nearly twenty hours out from his last meal, he had to admit to a ravenous appetite and a small degree of fuddled thinking. Qui-Gon Jinn was _not_ here; he ought to move on to the next logical question, which was either _where in the blazes is he, then? _or possibly _do we have any food lying about?_

He was simultaneously contemplating both these conundrums, each one with an equally starved and increasingly vexed half of his mind, when he finally noticed the small object left in the precise center of the common room's low table, presumably to attract his attention. He picked up the coded identity key, a small data chip which would grant access to Temple databank files and resources restricted to the use of Knights or Masters, and then unfolded the note tucked neatly beneath it.

On _flimsi, _of all things.

Obi-Wan's brows rose as he perused this missive's contents. Qui-Gon's handwriting was much like the man himself: bold, fearless strokes of the stylus scribed across the thin surface with a sure grace, but difficult to decipher because the characters would not be contained within the bounds of conventional form. After struggling over the mess for a few moments, the young Padawan determined that datapads and fingerboards were a great blessing, that his own compact and precise penmanship was a much-overlooked virtue, and that understanding what the words _said _ in no way elucidated their _meaning._

_Obi-Wan,_ the short message read, _I think the time has come. Take this to Troon Palo- he will give you private access to the personal records. May the Force be with you._

It was the oddest life-day offering to date. He pocketed both items, a simmering discontent making itself felt beneath his pulse. It was not the yet undisclosed contents of the records, or whatever it was he was supposed to look at, but the blithely impersonal manner of the gift's – or mandate's – delivery that so irked him.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, pensive.

Everything had a meaning, the inscrutable actions and words of a Jedi master in particular. But what was the subtle significance of this strange request? Of the tall man's studied absence on a morning when his company would be expected, even _desired?_ Or was that the point: at eighteen standard, was Obi-Wan now too old to _need_ such things? Was this a hint that he had best grow up, move on, renounce such juvenile sentiment and learn to stand entirely on his own, in time of joy as well as time of sorrow? It might be an admonishment, one delivered with utmost gentle tact and compassion, and yet with firm authority.

Even so, it still felt more like a _reprimand._

He sighed and watched the filtered sunlight play across the opposite wall, stomach still insistently rumbling.

Perhaps he ought to _eat_ before delving any further into the murky implications of the note and the code key. He held out a hand, summoning his cloak from across the room, and shrugged into its familiar folds with a residual pang of disappointment.

Though he harbored no expectations, this still paradoxically fell short of them.

* * *

His progress to the lower level dining hall was arrested by a familiar voice, and the unbecoming patter of jogging footfalls – in the Temple's public concourse, no less.

"Obi-Wan!"

Hunger could wait for Bant. The young Mon-Calamari healer closed the space between them and barreled into him, wrapping her arms about his ribs in an effusive hug.

Acutely aware of others' scrutiny, including the Master Oppo Rancisis' beadily disapproving stare, he gently squirmed free of the unbecoming display. "Ow."

"Oh," his friend smiled. "Sorry! I forgot about your shoulder – but you're doing so well. I hacked into the records and checked your physical therapy schedule. Master Li wanted to clear you yesterday but Master Jinn said you would only push too hard in the salles and it was better to wait. But that's good news, isn't it?" Her globular silver eyes blinked up at him, shining with affection.

"Bant … I was going to the refectory –"

"I know," she prattled on. "But I have an hour free – I asked Master Li specially, because it's your life day. Do you want to go swimming in the artificial river?"

He almost said _yes._ Breaking a rule – even one honored more in the breach than the observance – sounded like a delightful distraction at the moment. But such a rebellious sentiment had no place in the heart of a Jedi. He was _supposed_ to be mature. Old enough not to need a celebration, or an occasion of disobedience to mark it. "I – no."

Bant's face fell. "No?"

Qui-Gon's studied aloofness had a _point_ to it. It was time he stood on his own. "I have to outgrow that someday, Bant."

Her vestigial gills flared outward sharply, wounded feelings bleeding across her mental shields in a sloppy puddle.

"No – Bant – I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

Blinking rapidly, she took a step backward. "It's fine."

"No – please forgive me, I intended only –"

"May the Force be with you," Bant managed, blessed formality saving them both from further pain. She bowed, and retreated in the opposite direction, leaving him with a remorseful twisting deep in his gut, and absolutely no appetite.

_Push too hard in the salles, _his arse. He turned on his heel, foregoing midday meal, and headed straight for the Temple dojo.

* * *

Well over two hours and seventeen separate kata later, Obi-Wan collapsed upon a side bench, head spinning despite the Force's swift-flowing currents, the pulse of blood and ethereal fire in his veins. If he had not been Jedi, his body a sieve open to the universal life energy, he would surely have fainted from too much exertion hard on the heels of little sleep and less food. As it was, he lowered his head between his knees for a moment, anyhow, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass as he sucked in slow, steady breaths.

And he had to admit that his newly healed shoulder, recently blasted into an ugly mess-during _that_ mission, the one to Apsolon, the one with Siri Tachi - was _hurting_ like the blazes. He ran two hands through his short-cropped hair and took grim comfort in consideration of the fact that he _deserved_ the discomfort for being such a lout to poor Bant.

His morose introspection was brought up short by an unexpected presence. He jerked his head up, shamed to be caught in such a posture of vulnerability by one as revered within the Order's ranks as the silver-haired newcomer. Obi-Wan sprang to his feet to make a formal bow. "Master Dooku!"

The elegant Jedi master surveyed him with a hint of humor behind his cool façade. "Ah… Kenobi. I trust you are well?" His grey eyes swept over the empty salle. "Stars' end, you've reduced your opponents to _nothing."_

It was difficult to discern whether the older man spoke these words in subtle derision or in fond jest. Obi-Wan frowned, his discreet mental prodding slipping off the Jedi master's shields like rain over polished glass.

The effort did not go unnoticed, and earned him a swift backlash, Dooku's own perception thrust stiletto-like beneath the Padawan's shields, fleet and accurate as a serpent's strike. "Ah… I see. This is a special occasion, one meriting felicitations. You _are_ quite grown up, I must say. And where is dear Qui-Gon on this blessed day?"

Almost wincing visibly, Obi-Wan straightened his spine further. "He is engaged in a research project, master." Would it be rude to abruptly excuse himself? Probably. He remained frozen to the spot.

Dooku leaned back against the pale wall, crossing his legs. "Yes… too well do I remember Qui-Gon's little _projects. _ They are like starvling akk pups: he adopts them for a time, raises them nearly to maturity and then forgets about them in the heady flush of new enthusiasm for the next one, and then the next." A weighted pause. "A Jedi should _finish _what he starts, Padawan."

Ws that an _insult_ to his master? Whatever his own pique at Qui-Gon Jinn, _Dooku_ - the man's former mentor- had no right to demean one of the most generous and compassionate Jedi ever born. Certainly not in front of the man's Padawan. "I beg your pardon, master." The infinitesmal twitch of Dooku's mouth should have warned him, but his tongue outraced his prudence. "If my master is to be accused of such failings, I am obliged to credit them to your tutelage. In my experience, master, it is you who does not finish what he has started."

Yan Dooku was on his feet with the lethal grace of a man twenty years his junior, cold fire burning in his deepset eyes, his aquiline features drawn into lines of severe displeasure. Obi-Wan's heart skipped a beat, but they were fully _engaged _and it was too late to back out. Not with Qui-Gon's honor on the line.

"So you wish me to _finish_ the 'saber lessons I so rashly began with you these four years ago? I warn you, Padawan, Makashi is not a tool for puerile indulgence in dramatics."

The accusation doubled the still-smarting insult posed by Dooku's sudden, and never explained, withdrawal of his favor in the wake of a mission now two years gone; Obi-Wan tilted his chin up, face as coolly polite as the older man's. "On the contrary, allow me to demonstrate that my master has completed that which you did _not."_

Dooku chuckled darkly, silver brows rising in a sardonic arch. "Brave,,, but, ah, _foolish, _ my young friend."

They were faced off across the dojo's smooth floor a moment later, age against youth, cynicism against loyalty, Makashi against Ataru.

The ensuing contest was spectacular- and brief. In the end, Dooku helped his gasping opponent off the floor, returned the Padawan's fallen weapon to its owner, received the obligatory bow of gratitude with gracious detachment, and left with his opinions and reputation as a master duelist quite intact.

"Oh," he said, turning in the doorway as he swept out. "Six minutes is, for someone of your age and experience, most impressive. Should you ever wish to _finish _ what you have started, I would be honored."

Clutching at his ribs, not quite able to summon a fitting retort, Obi-Wan merely responded with a pained and miserable nod, watching the older man's cloak swirl contemptuously in at his heels as he retreated down the corridor.

He limped to the shower rooms to wash away his sweat and to apply salve to his new bruises and battered dignity.

* * *

On his way out of the salles, he had the further misfortune to run into Master Pertha.

"Ah! Padawan Kenobi – perfect. Might I ask for your assistance, if you are not otherwise occupied?"

Obi-Wan regarded the Temple's infamously overenthusiastic biological expert with a sinking heart. To lie was forbidden. To accede to the elderly Togrutan's request would be folly. "Ah…"

"Delightful! It won't take but a moment – I need your sharp young eyes, that's all. I've some new specimens to unload in the smaller arboretum – teaching advanced galactic botanopathology to the apprentice healers this study rotation – and the Force has provided a wonderful opportunity! Six spore-bearing _micohastae veniferousi, _straight from Rugosa! Beautiful! But I have trouble finding them in the packing material. My sight isn't what it used to be, you know."

Wryly, Obi-Wan wondered whether this latter fact accounted for the eccentric master's use of the term _beautiful_ to describe reticulated fungal masses covered in poisonous spines.

"Just come this way, young one – we had best stop and pick up protective gear from the quartermaster… we don't want you _touching_ our little friends directly." Master Pertha bustled his unwilling assistant along the corridor, eagerness shining in the Force like a manically flickering lantern. "By the way, where is your master? Qui-Gon would be absolutely thrilled to have a glimpse of these rare creatures."

"Oh, I'm sure they would _sharpen_ his appreciation of the Living Force… I'll make a _point_ of telling him, master."

"Yes, yes, do," the biologist urged him, far too preoccupied to indulge in trivial wordplay.

Master Pertha was no fun at all. Resigning himself to his fate with a small sigh, Obi-Wan trailed dutifully behind the Togrutan Jedi as they traversed the intervening passages. It was turning out to be that sort of day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Having escaped miraculously unscathed from his close encounter with Master Pertha's repulsive Rugosan_ micohastae, _ Obi-Wan judged that by postponing the inevitable, he clearly only tempted fate to further abuse his patience. He ought really to turn his thoughts to Qui-Gon's strange behest, and his steps toward the upper residential levels.

"Obi-Wan! This is a surprise!" Troon Palo bared his alarmingly sharp teeth in a wide grin of welcome, his broad, dark-furred shoulders all but filling the threshold of the clan dormitory. Troon's sheer brobdingnagian proportions gave his young visitor the unsettling illusion of being once more a youngling of seven or eight; he stared up into the hirsute master's smiling eyes with a sense of awe, a feeling dredged up from early childhood memory.

"Just a moment," the clan-master said, turning his head over one shoulder. "Don't even _think_ about it, Ti-Lo!" he hollered into the boisterous play room behind him.

A gasp of contrition and a murmur of amazement met this warning.

Troon waved his guest inside, where the younglings of Dragon Clan milled busily about the toy-strewn expanse of their own common area. Obi-Wan smiled at a pile of levitating bricks, and ducked as a hoverball sailed over his head. Troon plucked a pair of wrestling youngsters apart with a wave of his hand, and prevented another youngster from tumbling off the top of a cupboard with the other.

"Next time I let you fall, Meisha," he growled at the diminutive Iktotchi. "What brings you here, my friend?" he addressed the Padawan. "It's been many a year since I had to contend with you and that rapscallion Muln… makes me nostalgic. _This_ lot…" he gestured vaguely at his energetic charges, "makes _your_ generation look like a bunch of old biddies."

"They are… strong in the Force," Obi-Wan agreed, watching the chaos with a wary eye.

"Step into my office a moment – can't hear a blasted thing you say," Troon Palo muttered, ushering him into the tiny alcove and closing the door in the scene of unparalleled disorder in the larger room.

Obi-Wan wondered privately whether Master Palo had perhaps lost his touch over the years. He shuddered to think what would transpire were Master Yoda to come sauntering into the dormitory at this inauspicious moment.

"He'd join in the fray, believe me," the dark-haired Jedi master rumbled, easily reading the tenor of his thoughts. "Seen it, in fact. Now… you didn't come just to visit me, did you?"

"No, master," the Padawan admitted. He withdrew the code key from his belt pouch and turned it thoughtfully between his fingers. "Master Jinn gave me his access code – he wishes me to, ah, look at the personal records database." He hesitated, gauging Troon's reaction. But the clan-master nodded as though this were an everyday occurrence.

"Oh, is that all? Here you are. Use my private terminal." He tapped a few commands in to the touchpad and shoved his gargantuan chair in the young Jedi's direction. "I'll give you a moment of privacy."

And with that, he ducked back out the door, already roaring at Ti-Lo to cease whatever malefaction in which she was currently engaged.

* * *

Obi-Wan stared at the blank holo-screen for a long minute before sliding the access key into the reader's slot and entering his request into the appropriate input field. His eyes traced over the flickering lines of Aurebesh text and their accompanying images, a line appearing between his brows as he called up each new section of information in quick succession.

_Name: Obi-Wan Kenobi._ _Species: Human. Gender: Male._

"You don't say," he muttered acerbically, moving on to the next field.

_Date of induction into the Jedi Order._

He had been almost three years standard – late, but not _too _ late. If he tried hard, perhaps in meditation, he could likely recall the day clearly. But he had no particular desire to trouble with such an exercise.

_Medical records. _

"…No thank you." He scrolled through the other options.

_Planet of origin: Stewardship of Terajon ._

Idly, he called up the file. The coordinates showed a location in the Mid-Rim, a glimmering map-speck designated by the standard abbreviation _Stew-jon._ The world was a long-standing member of the Republic, affluent, traditional, technologically and culturally advanced, represented individually in the Senate, and categorized as having a non-species-diverse population. Below this general information was another sub-file.

_Family data and history._

His gut twisted, intuition supplying that _this_ was the point of Qui-Gon's peculiar gift. He folded his arms across his chest, looking past the transparent holo-screen to the pale wall beyond, focus turned inward.

Was it a test?

Qui-Gon's previous apprentice, Xanatos, had renounced his place in the Order and betrayed his master's trust upon discovering the truth about his own birth family's powerful and wealthy status on their homeworld, Telos. It had been a bitter falling-out, a tragedy. Was this a parallel trial, an obstacle thrown in his path to _prove_ his loyalty and devotion, the strength of his commitment or his _detachment_ from personal ties?

He sank deeper into Troon's oversized chair, brooding unrepentantly.

He could one-up _Xanatos_ on that account; he would not so much as _look_ at the file.

But then, another part of his mind reasoned, playing devil's advocate, would Qui-Gon Jinn be so cruel as to throw such an obstacle in his path, disguised as a benefaction? The tall Jedi master was unpredictable, and given to eccentric teaching methods, but he always favored the direct approach and was as a rule well-attuned to his student's moods and vulnerabilities. Surely he would not have intended this as anything other than a _gift, _ pure and simple, for such he had declared it to be- and his word was his honor.

The Padawan ran a hand through his bristled hair. What possible benefit could he derive from delving into his early, unrecalled personal history? What wisdom or comfort was to be derived from a group of people far distant and related to him, in all truth, only by the tenuous skein of genetic encoding? The Force ran deeper than blood; indeed, in a very real and measurable way, the Force ran _in_ his blood, and laid a claim to both his heritage and posterity, grafting him into a lineage more secure and profound than any offered by mere flesh.

And he knew more of loss than this trifling endowment of knowledge could ever hope to replace, even had it been intended to do so.

He exhaled deeply, releasing the coder from its slot and shutting down the file without perusing it further. He had no need or desire of such a distraction, such a trifling wayside circus on his path. The gift had been granted in good faith, he was sure – but it fell flat in the face of present reality and recent memory. He pocketed the access key and stood, feeling – if he were honest with himself – a slight pang of disappointment.

Never had Qui-Gon _missed_ the mark so badly. But there was a first time for everything, he supposed.

"Obi-Wan!" Troon roared when he exited the quiet office into the uproarious melee of the clan playroom. "Stay a while and help me with these young reprobates! You've got my permission to give 'em as good as you get!"

The offer was surprisingly tempting. For a moment he wavered, on the cusp of acquiescing with an impish grin; but he stopped himself, recalling that he needed to move _forward, _away from the frivolity of childhood and not back into it. Regretfully, he made some polite excuse and fled the scene, the disappointed murmuring of the small Dragons ringing uncomfortably in his ears.

* * *

He was famished beyond description by the time he finally made his appearance in the sixth level dining hall, the one most frequented by senior Padawans, due to its convenient proximity to the upper tier lecture halls and the south residential wing. Standing in line to be served by the droid attendant – the sentient staff having retired for the night – he overheard a familiar guffaw from the room's far corner.

It hailed from the table where Garen and Reeft habitually ensconced themselves during meals. Obi-Wan reflexively shielded his thoughts; the Force sharpened his focus to a narrow particularity, carrying every word of their exchange to his over-curious ears.

"No," Garen Muln drawled. "I'm serious, Bantling. Next time he's a pompous barve to you, just let me know. In fact, not _only _would I haul his rear into the river myself, I'd jump in after and drown him, too."

Reeft's next burst of laughter expressed a broad dubiety about Garen's ability to make good on this threat.

"Shut up, Reeft. You can help. And maybe we might need Quinlan, too, or someone like that. Obi's a right pain in the _pula_ when he's got his back to a wall. But we'll fix him up proper for you, Bant. Don't worry."

The subject of this conspiracy felt heat rise in his face. The droid had to ask him twice whether he wanted fava beans or steamed droozil.

"Oh…" Bant's voice rose over the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation in the wide room. It's not like that . I think something's _wrong._ Do you think – well, you know… Master Uvain."

Obi-Wan accidentally crushed the recyclable plastoid drinking cup in his right hand, resulting in a small explosion of water over his tray and tunics. "_Blast it."_ He dropped his dinner on a nearby table and fetched a rag from across the room with a completely frivolous use of the Force.

"Ahem." Master Corr Attu, sitting at an adjacent table with his own Padawan, raised a white eyebrow at this display. Obi-Wan bowed apologetically and made sure to clean up the mess on hands and knees, contritely abstaining from any use of extraordinary abilities. Master Attu's censuring gaze lifted once the puddle had been mopped up to his satisfaction.

Of course by the time this penance had been completed, the fascinating discussion at the far table had moved onward, oblivious to his eavesdropping efforts.

"..And today's his life-day, too," Bant sadly concluded.

"He might not make it to his next one if he's decided to be that rude," Garen growled.

A solid _thwap_ signaled a punch to Padawan Muln's arm, one doubtlessly delivered by the loyal Mon Cal.

"You're not listening. We should do something to _help_. I wish Siri Tachi were here…. She always seems to bring out his playful side."

Choking on his first spoonful of fava beans, Obi-Wan decided that he was not hungry in the least. Siri. She was presently on meditative retreat with her master, Adi Gallia, after their disastrous mission to New Apsolon, a harrowing adventure that had drawn to its thunderous conclusion less than three weeks ago. The round of chuckling that accompanied Bant's last remark did nothing to help his swiftly deteriorating mood. His friends were… well. They simply didn't….

He needed to be alone.

Abandoning his untouched meal to the closest refuse collection bin, and pointedly ignoring Master Attu's reproving glare at this spectacle of thoughtless waste, he hurried toward the nearest lift and his own quarters.

* * *

The apartment was dark, and hollow of any familiar presence.

Obi-Wan wandered across the sparely furnished common area, needing no light to guide his steps. The solitude he had craved so acutely no longer held any charm. The rooms he shared with Qui-Gon Jinn were aggressively empty, a void threatening to press in, spill over into his interior domain.

For the tenth time that day, he almost reached for his comlink, but decided against it. If the Jedi master required his presence, or even desired his company, he would have contacted his apprentice already. And what would he say, anyhow, should he press the transmit button and disturb his mentor's private avocation? _Oh… forgive me, master – I was just having a crecheling anxiety attack in honor of my life-day. Perhaps you would like to express your pride in my fortitude and serenity? It would make things so much better, you see….And did I mention that Master Dooku whipped me soundly in a sparring match too? I do strive always to honor your teachings and example._

He snorted, lip curling in disgust. Perhaps he should permit Garen Muln to ambush and subsequently drown him in the arboretum's shallow river. It would save the galaxy a modicum of trouble in the future, really.

Another unworthy – and damnably _immature- _ thought. He banished it on a long exhalation, raking through his thoroughly disheveled psyche for the source of his unease, grasping at the fleeting tendrils of Light that wrapped about his aching soul.

He stood, hand resting on his 'saber's hilt for a long disgruntled minute, before he stepped back out the door and set off down the passageway again, cloak billowing forlornly in his wake.

* * *

The small room was dimmed, and the single bed's occupant not quite asleep. Obi-Wan padded softly in, frowning at the biomonitor's solicitously blinking light panel, a gossiping neighbor peering into affairs not its own.

"Master?"

Tahl stirred, summoning him closer with a feeble wave of the hand. He sank down upon the nearby stool and scooted to the edge of her cot, fingers threading through those of the limp hand upon her coverlet. Beneath his gentle grip, a pulse throbbed with painful intensity, the last grains of life swiftly running through time's glass.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered hoarsely, blind eyes seeking vaguely in the air somewhere above his head.

"Visiting you."

Tahl shifted, with a herculean effort, leaning now toward him on one side. The machine shrilled its objection, and she silenced it with a tart wave of the hand.

"Master Li won't like that," Obi-Wan warned.

"So he can kill me," Tahl snorted. Her fingers traced over the contours of his face, coming to rest upon his cheek. "Why are you _sad_ on your life-day, Obi-Wan? You should be in a festive mood… or at least a grateful one. I personally had fifty dataries laid against Qui that you would never make it this far in one piece."

His brows quirked upward, but his only answer was an audible swallow.

Tahl sighed, a soundless release. "Oh, sweet-heart…. Come here."

He laid his head down on the pillow beside hers, hunched against the cot's hard railing. Senior healer Ben To Li appeared in the doorway, limned in soft blue from the corridor beyond, and stared pointedly at the monitor, then – noticing the Padawan's presence, the tightly furled grief sitting leaden in the Force – he tactfully withdrew, shaking his head in mute sympathy.

"You aren't even going to sing for me, are you?" Tahl complained, returning the pressure about her fingers with a wobbling squeeze.

"I'm sorry, master."

The ailing woman closed her eyes, another regret-laden sigh escaping her lips. "Then you leave me no choice but to teach. Recite with me."

His shoulders tautened, but Tahl was a Master of the Order, and fully entitled to her prerogatives. She ploughed onward, relentless. "There is no emotion."

"There is peace. There is no ignorance."

"There is knowledge. There is no passion."

"There is serenity."

She inhaled deeply, Light kindling invisibly about them. "…There is no death." She waited for his obedient response. "Obi-Wan." A breath rose and fell between them. "Padawan, if you can't get through the Code at this point in your education, you reflect very poorly indeed upon that scurrilous master of yours. Now: there is –"

"No death," he answered at last, face pressed into the pillow, voice husky, edged with something that did not exist. "There is only the Force."

"Better." Tahl collapsed backward, utterly spent. "I knew you were capable." Her hand dropped away, tugging softly on his long braid as it slipped to her side. "Now stay there," she muttered, "… so I can keep you… out of trouble."

"Yes, master," he mumbled, docile to her bidding.

When Ben To returned a half hour later to readjust the stricken biomonitor and to check on his slowly dying patient and her young visitor, they were both sound asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn hurried along the last broad passageway, shaking off the lingering after effects of sustained deep absorption in one of the Archives' most archaic holocrons. Such research was more akin to meditative introspection that academic study; his mind convoluted within the arcane texts and teachings of a forgotten sect, he had lost track of time, of place, of the events recently past and yet to come, the fabric and texture of his personal history. With a small jolt of alarm, he noted that it had been over a full diurnal rotation since he had descended into the Archives' lower levels to open the crystalline matrix preserved therein.

Brushing aside the slight feeling of disorientation, he checked his comlink for messages but found none. It was unlike Obi-Wan to be so… aloof, especially on such a special occasion. Was the Padawan perhaps still involved in his own personal researches? But that seemed impossible; Qui-Gon himself had carefully studied the records in question, and while complete, they were by no means extensive or particularly intriguing. On the other hand, leave it to Obi-Wan to find nuance and implication where others saw only indifferent data. The boy had a talent for trouble, even in the conceptual realm.

He lengthened his stride, his rapid pace bringing him swiftly to the Halls of Healing, and a door now all too familiar. He drew in a centering breath before he entered, banishing all thoughts but one.

"You're _late," _Tahl accused him when he crossed the threshold. Today she was propped upright, a tea bowl held in one unsteady hand. But for the bluish cast to her golden skin, and the bright gloss over her milky, sightless eyes, she might have been whole, still in the prime and vigor of life. The Force burned like a furnace about her, a vitality spending itself recklessly, a star poised upon the point of supernova. He basked in the illusory radiance for a long moment, pretending that they were elsewhere, this leaping fire some other kind of flame, one more joyful.

"I came as soon as I could," he gently remonstrated, easing himself onto the foot of her cot.

She nudged him with one foot, irritably. "Do you even know where your Padawan is?"

He frowned. "He is almost a grown _man,_ Tahl. He does not need me running after him at every moment like a mother thranctill hen."

Her brows arched, sardonic. "Yes, you leave that to others. He spent the night here, you know."

"What?" Instantly, he was on his feet and in the corridor. "Why was I not informed?"

"_Here,_ Qui. With me," Tahl added, crossly. "Brooding on the nature and consequence of mortality, until he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. While you, of course, were busy elsewhere."

Qui-Gon leaned in the open doorframe, exhaling slowly. "This _is_ important," he insisted. "I have discovered –"

"You've discovered a convenient pretense for neglecting your duty, _Master_ Jinn. I suppose you're going to say you've undertaken this latest obsession for my sake?" Before he could issue any objection, she drove her point in deeper. "If you wish to honor _me, _ Qui, you will hunt down that boy and set his adorable head straight on his shoulders. I can't brook his _misery_ any longer. It pains me."

Tahl was agitated, and the bio-monitor proved to be an eager informant for the enemy. Alarms shrilled; immediately, a pair of startled apprentice healers came scurrying down the hall.

"And _now_ you've brought healers down on my head," she added, tartly. "Well done."

Accepting the double sting of his defeat and her displeasure, Qui-Gon retreated into the corridor while the earnest Padawans fussed over their cantankerous patient. He nearly bumped into Senior Healer Ben To Li as the older master slipped out of the adjacent doorway.

"Master Jinn. Making trouble again. Someday I shall ban you from this ward entirely."

He was in no mood for jesting. "Fate would not be so kind."

The healer merely cocked a perceptive brow. "If you are looking for your Padawan, don't bother with the comm system. He and Bant went to the Room of a Thousand Fountains…. I doubt they'll be available by 'link for some time."

The tall man nodded warily. "He was here earlier?"

Ben To's sharp black eyes rested on him thoughtfully. "Yes. And he apologized very handsomely to Bant for some trifling offense or other – where he learned his pretty manners is a mystery of the Force- whereupon I gave her leave to indulge in some sober recreation."

With a brief nod of thanks, Qui-Gon took his leave and headed by the most direct route for the Temple's large arboretum, Tahl's censure still ringing in his ears. Why had Obi-Wan not contacted him yesterday when the Padawan was finished with his meditation and subsequent perusal of the database records? What reason could he have for shunning his own master's company, especially when they had an important milestone to mark? Unless, of course, such foolishness sprang from a misplaced sense of solitude, a resolve to shoulder all his burdens and discoveries single-handedly, in the name of some newly acquired maturity. The master's steps slowed, a rueful smile hovering about his lips. True maturity acknowledged the insufficiency of the self and the interdependence of all beings; but his Padawan, while embracing these truths as they applied to all others, had yet to fully grasp their relevance to his own heart – not from arrogance but from a unique capacity to assume that every burden placed upon him was a test of his fortitude.

And likewise, every gift a test of his worthiness, rather than a token of the same.

"Obi-Wan," the tall man growled, quickening his pace yet again.

* * *

He passed by Troon Palo and his disorderly clan as he swept down the main garden path toward the obvious place – the bend in the artificial river where the slow current had carved out a shale-strewn bank, a place shaded by drooping yarbanna fronds and screened from view by a tight-knit cluster of aoli bushes just beyond.

And there, tidily folded upon the gravel shore, were Bant Eerin's healer's tunic and cloak; beside them, casually strewn upon the rocks, was a heap of brown and cream cloth topped by an equipment belt. The pommel of Obi-Wan's saber peeked from beneath a trailing hem.

Qui-Gon peered out over the river's undulating surface. No sign of the delinquents here, but they would have to return to this point to retrieve their clothing. And to reap the consequences of their perfidy - such egregious violation of the sacrosanct rule against swimming in the arboretum _must_ _not_ go unpunished.. He sat upon a flat boulder to abide patiently in the Living Force.

He did not have to wait long; by and by, the burbling current's music was joined by a soft splashing and the sound of young voices conversing in hushed tones. The Jedi master reinforced his mental shields, veiling his presence from immediate notice, and watched in amusement as the Mon-Cal Padawan and his own student emerged into view, wading contentedly from the midst of the deep stream to the shallows, water trailing off their limbs in delicate rivulets, Obi-Wan's braid clinging wetly to his chest as he backed toward the water's edge, sending a Force-propelled wave careening over the surface to smother Bant beneath a wall of greenish water.

"You _gundark,"_ the young healer spluttered, splashing onto the banks hard on his heels. She took a playful swipe at him and missed as he adroitly sidestepped the blow, pert smile widening to a mischievous grin.

Still oblivious to the spectator's presence, the young Padawan proceeded to sprawl supine upon the warm blanket of smooth pebbles at the river's edge. He shimmied down into the shifting nest with a grunt of delectation, bending one knee and propping his hands behind his head.

Bant Eerin pulled her tunics on over her bathing unitard, neatly wrapping the sash around her middle and unfolding her cloak. "I really have to get back to the Halls, Obi," she told her thoroughly relaxed friend. "And you had better get going too. I thought I heard some younglings promenading in the gardens earlier – it would never do to get _caught_ here. Especially by one of the clan-masters. Think what a terrible _example_ this would set."

"I don't sense anyone nearby… and besides, you should have seen Dragon Clan yesterday. A full-blown Nal Huttan baccahanal would serve as a lofty exemplar of virtue to them."

Bant giggled, then subsided nervously. "All right, bantha-brains. I'll see you later." The Mon Cal girl turned to depart, her globular eyes widening to shocked round lanterns and her mouth puckering into a perfect "o" as she caught sight of Qui-Gon lurking just behind the mottled yarbanna shadows.

The Jedi master pressed one finger against his lips in warning, then dismissed her with a terse nod of the head. She scuttled away in great haste, a flare of sheerest alarm trailing behind her in the Force like a spectacular comet-tail.

It was this, more than Qui-Gon's sudden lowering of mental shields, that alerted Obi-Wan to his mentor's presence. He slewed round, scrambling out of his languid sprawl and onto his feet in a single heartbeat, terror and amusement mingled equally in dancing eyes.

Qui-Gon slid down from his perch and closed the space between them in three swift strides. "Forgive the intrusion," he said, formally, regarding his bedraggled Padawan with stern disproval stamped upon his rugged features.

"Master! I did not sense your presence," his apprentice admitted, blue eyes shifting left, right, over the tall man's shoulder, a trained duelist assessing the battleground.

Qui-Gon stretched out a hand and brought the Padawan's bundled clothing and weapon flying into his own grasp before the young man could make a snatch for them. Obi-Wan's mouth tightened in frustration.

"Shall we walk back to our quarters?" the tall man innocently inquired.

Obi-Wan's gaze flicked briefly to his own sopping and twisted undershorts, then back to the Jedi master's face. "Ah … no, master."

"Really? You intend to persist in your defiant conduct?"

The young Jedi's head came round, eyes widening as the patter of a dozen small feet and the unmistakable rumble of Troon Palo's voice approached round the nearest bend in the path.

"You are ever my inspiration, master," he murmured, backing toward the river and temporary escape.

Qui-Gon took a threatening step forward. "I'll _inspire_ you, wretched brat."

The younglings drew nearer.

"You will have to catch me first, master," Obi-Wan declared, his dimples making a brief cameo appearance as he took another wary step toward the water's edge.

The Jedi master's brows rose in bland consideration of his options. Then he abruptly dropped the bundle and swiftly set about stripping off his own garments, sending his Padawan diving back into the river's depths with an alacrity bespeaking a sudden and overwhelming inspiration to flee.

By the time Dragon clan arrived at the fateful bend in the meandering path, both Jedi were in midstream, embroiled in a protracted tussle – one that churned the normally placid river's surface into a white maelstrom. Obi-Wan's flight was short-lived; Qui-Gon's long, rapid strokes allowed him to easily overtake his Padawan and engage him in hand to hand combat amid the treacherous deeps. Much grappling and splashing and several prolonged dunkings later, the Jedi master emerged triumphant upon the shore, hauling his panting apprentice out of the shallows by the nerftail.

Troon's diminutive charges witnessed the entire spectacle with wide eyes and gaping mouths, frozen in place upon the daintily groomed footpath as one of the Temple's most formidable and legendary masters – sans any attire beyond a sopping pair of trousers - wrestled his felonious student onto the shore and stood tall over him, dripping thunderous authority.

"Kneel, miscreant," he rumbled, forcing his captive down upon the graveled beach. "You have brashly violated the sacred precepts of this Temple and dishonored your training. Sue for lenience and your punishment may be merciful."

Gasping in mingled pain and laughter, the irrepressible Padawan bared his teeth in a saucy grin. "Forgive me, master- my conduct is inexcusable – I forgot that disobedience is _your_ sole prerogative – _aaagh!"_

This last as Qui-Gon bore down harder, forcing the young Jedi's forehead almost to his knees, and then dropped down beside him, chuckling dangerously.

At a quiet signal from Troon, the tiny Dragons lined up in a rigidly perfect formation, not a single toe or hair out of line, not a peep of disrespect or protest issuing from their lips, the Force alight with their fervent resolution to obey and be good.

"Come along, you lot," their enormous clan-master directed, waiting until the parade of speechless youngsters had hurried from the scene before allowing his own mirth to spill over into a throaty chuckle. He lagged behind a moment longer. "Do you need a switch, Master Jinn?" he called out, merrily.

"Oh no," the tall man replied, evenly. " -hold still, imp, or I shall accept his offer – I have much worse plans for this villain."

"Well deserved, I'm sure," was Troon's parting volley.

* * *

Restored – more or less- to their customary neatness of attire, pacing solemnly back to their quarters side by side, master and apprentice presented a far more respectable picture of Jedi serenity than that beheld by Dragon Clan a half hour earlier.

"I assume," Qui-Gon gently prodded when they had nearly reached the door, "That you have seen all you wished of the personal files?"

The ghost of a frown appeared on Obi-Wan's face and then disappeared over the Force's infinite horizon. "Yes, master." He reached into a belt pouch and withdrew the access code key. "I thank you for trusting me with the knowledge… I do not require this any longer."

The Jedi master stopped upon the threshold, head cocked to one side, assessing. "You are perfectly content with the limited extent of information available in the files, then?"

"Yes, master." The statement was sincere, if still guarded.

"Hm." The tall man raised his brows. "You do not wish to find out more… even about, say, your uncle Slartibartfast?"

The Padawan's confident gaze faltered, confusion replacing his firm resolve.

Qui-Gon leaned down. "There is no such person, Padawan. You did not read the records at all, did you?"

Obi-Wan colored slightly, but denial was not an option. His eyes dropped to the floor. "No, master. I am sorry." Just as quickly, he looked up again, a bright fire of some indefinable emotion edging his Force signature. "I _am_ honored, master – but this is not a gift I wish to accept. I have no need of it. I mean no disrespect, but… here. This is yours; I do not need it." He held out the code key, mouth hardening into a stubborn line.

Never had the young Jedi so flatly refused a gift, even the precious river stone given him five years ago upon the same occasion. Then he had accepted an apparently worthless object with his innate and careful grace of manner, only to later discover its true value; now – against all expectation - he impatiently brushed aside a thing of obvious worth and meaning. It was _unlike_ him.

The older man's face must have conveyed his disappointment, for Obi-Wan colored even more deeply, still mutely urging Qui-Gon to take the data chip. "I'm sorry, master," he mumbled, acutely pained by the interaction.

"No. Keep this a while longer. You may change your mind."

The Padawan acceded, but obviously from ingrained deference rather than any belief this might be true. He replaced the code key in a belt pouch and turned toward the open doorway – only to stop in mid-stride, as rushing footsteps pattered down the corridor in their direction.

"Docent Vann," Qui-Gon greeted the breathless courier.

The grey-haired woman bowed politely, pressing a small datapad into Obi-Wan's hands. "An urgent message for you, Padawan Kenobi. The Council desired it to be delivered personally."

"Thank you," he responded, surprised.

The docent nodded and then hurried away on her next errand, leaving the two Jedi suspended upon their own threshold.

"What is it, Padawan?" Qui-Gon leaned over his student's shoulder as he perused the reader's brief contents.

Obi-Wan scowled deeply, the Force darkening with ominous clouds. "It's… a _subpoena," _ he said, at last.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"Let me see it, Padawan," Qui-Gon quietly suggested, after Obi-Wan had read the contents of the unexpected message over three times in succession, maintaining a stunned silence all the while.

The young Jedi surrendered the 'pad without protest, letting his hands drop to his folded knees as he sat cross-legged upon one of the common room's somewhat threadbare cushions. Qui-Gon settled himself upon the other, his grey eyes raking critically over the text display once, and then again more slowly, and then a third time, his silence spiraling into an introspective gravity well-matched to his student's, the Force yoking them in a shared solemnity of demeanor and mood.

The Jedi master found his voice first. "So. Jenna Zan Arbor is finally to stand trial in the Republic High Court; and you have been called to the witness stand by the prosecution."

Obi-Wan's frown deepened. "Master Uvain has been summoned as well," he added, in a low tone. "But she will not be able to present testimony."

A muscle in the older man's jaw leapt. He nodded, carefully. "Yes. And so the burden rests solely on your shoulders."

"I am willing, master. It is my duty… and more."

Qui-Gon sighed, meeting the young man's gaze, the fires banked behind smoldering blue eyes. "That does not mean it is not a _burden,_ Obi-Wan." He waited for this to sink in. "This _will_ be difficult."

"I am not concerned," his apprentice asserted, soberly. "It has been over two years. I have and I will again meditate deeply upon those events. Their recollection will not be needlessly painful, master."

His mentor drummed the fingers of one hand against the datapad's surface. "I do not doubt your courage – but you may find the barristers and the various regulatory measures and restrictions a great source of vexation. A test of patience more than fortitude – and also such a trial is sure to be flooded with the most banal and obnoxious holonet moguls in the galaxy. Do not underestimate the challenges posed by demagoguery and sensationalism."

"I don't," Obi-Wan assured him grimly. "But I would gladly suffer anything to see that hell-spawned vetch convicted and punished for what she has done."

His vehemence did not earn Qui-Gon's approval, however. "Be wary, young one: outrage can easily translate into vengeance. Remember that _no_ possible retribution will reverse or correct the evils Zan Arbor has already wrought; atonement belongs to the Force, not to the courts – or to you."

"But –"

"Obi-Wan." The Jedi master's stern tone brought his student up short. "If the truth is made known and she is prevented from wreaking further mischief and damage, that must suffice for us. A Jedi does not crave vengeance, no matter how grave the offense, nor how… personal."

The Padawan dropped his gaze and brooded upon these difficult words, chest rising and falling in a controlled rhythm as he released some of his unrest into the Force.

"Two years," Qui-Gon murmured. "To think the case has taken this long to come to trial… and who is to say how long the appeals process may last? The Judiciary is infamous for its incompetence and inexcusable delays."

"Master, you just said –"

"I _said _that you, my Padawan, must keep your heart pure and armored against the Dark – not that I had any confidence in the courts."

Obi-Wan's shoulders sank with his heart, a new worry manifesting itself in his suddenly deflated posture. "Master – must I remain on Coruscant for the entire duration of this trial? What if it drags on for months or even years?"

"Those are the conditions stipulated by the subpoena; and as a citizen of the Republic, Jedi or not, you are bound to comply. Unless we can obtain a special dispensation through the Chancellor's office – but that does not seem likely given the high-profile nature of this particular case."

"But – what about missions? Master, what if you are called on assignment while I am stuck here, embroiled in some lawyer's half-wit sophistries?"

Qui-Gon almost chuckled at the horrified expression on his apprentice's face – but the boy had a fair point. The question was worrisome. "Calm yourself, " he ordered, despite his own misgivings. "There is no _what if._ Each of us will do as duty and necessity dictate." He held up a hand to forestall the next torrent of objections. "However, I see one possible, if temporary, solution. The Court will demand that you are provided with appropriate security."

"I don't need security," Obi-Wan scoffed. "That's absurd. _Jedi_ are often commissioned as security for important witnesses. What shall I do? … Stalk after myself in the Temple and stand outside my own bedroom door at night? Or accept one of the Senate security officers as personal bodyguard, so I can protect _him_ when there is –"

"_Padawan."_

"I'm sorry, master."

Qui-Gon allowed a solid minute for the reprimand to take full effect before resuming. "You will, as key witness for the prosecution, be assigned a skilled security detail – the wisdom of which safeguard I do not think you fully appreciate." He fixed his chastised apprentice with a look that _dared_ further objections to be issued. When he was met with demure silence, he continued, "And I have a very strong preference that such duties be filled by _myself,_ and no other."

Obi-Wan dared to meet his eyes again, his miniscule smile sending a warm gust of gratitude and understanding across their Force bond.

"I should also prefer to remain on-planet for a short while," Qui-Gon added. "For … other reasons."

A pensive and grief-laden silence settled uncomfortably between them.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. "The message said that I must meet with the Council tomorrow morning to discuss this development."

"I will accompany you," Qui-Gon reassured him, reading the unvoiced thought.

There was a hint of relief in Obi-Wan's exhalation, but he merely nodded, a slight frown still contracting his brows. "Your research –"

"Can wait, at least a short while. There is a time and a place for everything. This path set before you in the present moment demands our attention. We will look to it first."

The young Jedi crossed his arms over his chest, hugging his own ribs like a buttress reinforcing an overburdened wall. "I only wish it could be some _other_ present moment," he admitted, mental shields seeming to groan beneath the pressure of dammed emotion, of building floodwaters.

"That is not ours to decide," Qui-Gon gently reminded him, tilting his head to one side and prodding delicately with the Force, feeling for the roots of his student's anxiety. After a moment's careful consideration, he laid the datapad down and folded his own arms. "When was the last time you _ate,_ Padawan?"

Bemused, the young Jedi blinked in surprise, dutifully ransacking his memory. "Ah… I had tea with Bant this morning… and, ah… well. The day before yesterday," he finished lamely.

"I see. This explains much."

"Yes, master," Obi-Wan muttered.

" But it also means that we have yet to enjoy a life-day breakfast together. I rather expected that you would contact me yesterday when you had finished with the records… I was looking forward to a celebration."

"Oh." Obi-Wan colored. "I … might have misunderstood your intentions," he admitted.

The tall man raised an amused eyebrow. "What? You thought it was time to dispense with all frivolity simply because you've attained a ripe old age? And here I was hoping you would someday outgrow your excessive sobriety."

The Padawan's mouth twisted wryly.

"Come." Qui-Gon rose fluidly to his feet. "This merits immediate action. We'll eat in the city, since the occasion is long overdue." He led the way to the door, plucking Obi-Wan's cloak off the floor and flinging it casually in his apprentice's general direction. "And do not fret, my young friend: I will not consider you well and truly independent until I've managed to finally housebreak you."

The young Jedi shrugged into the cloak's heavy folds. "That may take a _long time, _master… considering it is a case of the blind leading the blind."

"Impudent brat." Qui-Gon waved open the door and they happily sauntered into the corridor beyond, leaving the court summons and their worries behind, at least for the present moment.

* * *

Obi-Wan peered over the air-car's side, mouth pressed into a thin line.

"We are not _that_ far in excess of the legal speed limits," Qui-Gon teased, nudging the fleet Temple speeder a bit further in the direction of excess. Coruscant's variegated geometry blurred into an angular kaleidoscope beneath them as they whizzed along in the topmost airlane, passing district after district in one long sailing arc, the throttle wide open and the stabilizers barely keeping their hull from thumping and rattling along the pressure differentials. Despite the cockpit dampers, Qui-Gon's long hair still streamed out behind him as all around the noonday sun glinted on high-rises and canyons, glittering residential towers and industrial wastelands.

"_How_ far are we going?" the young Jedi ventured, tearing his appalled gaze away from the dizzying vista and back to his mentor's face.

"Clear into the Belshuu district," Qui-Gon replied. "Which is several time zones ahead of the Temple precinct and already on the brink of sunset. I hope you don't mind enjoying your life-day breakfast in the middle of the night?"

"So long as time _flies_… I'm famished."

The aircar hurtled recklessly onward. Qui-Gon chuckled as his student's knuckles whitened about the edges of the passenger seat. "Relax, Padawan. Time cannot fly but we, fortunately, can. And I told Dex we would meet him in less than an hour. You are very keen on punctuality, are you not?"

"Better late than _never_, master," came the pointed reply. Then, "….Dex?"

Qui-Gon mercifully eased up on the accelerator. "Yes. He was delighted to share this special occasion with us – and he has made reservations at a rather unique venue. I hope you don't mind his inclusion in the party?"

Some of Obi-Wan's edginess bled away into the Force, the prospect of seeing their eccentric Besalisk acquaintance a cheering prospect, one distracting enough to drive all gloomy calculations of impetus and relative velocities from his mind. "No – I'm glad. It has been a long time."

The tall man's mouth quirked upward at one corner. "Mere months, actually. But we have been busily occupied. I'm sure he will be amused to hear about our misadventures on Devaron."

There had been _other _misadventures of a far more sober nature, but neither of them wished to dwell upon those at this moment. The Padawan shrugged, gazing blandly over the darkening landscape as they rapidly approached the city-planet's terminator. "Of course, master. Comic relief is our special-ity."

* * *

"Well, well! It's a real pleasure to see ye, Qui-Gon old friend.. and Obi-Wan too! Many happy returns are in order, eh?"

Dexter Jettster managed to encompass both Jedi in a single crushing embrace, a feat made possible by virtue of his four arms and hands of gargantuan proportion. Obi-Wan found himself smothered between a fold of Qui-Gon's cloak and the Besalisk's flabby armpit, and then released just before spots began to swim in his vision.

"It's good to see you, too, Dex." He discreetly rubbed at his bruised ribs.

"Let's go," the grinning reptilian urged them, hitching his trousers up with his lower pair of arms. "Got a good dining car, scheduled to leave in ten. Took the liberty of orderin' for ya, seein' as you Jedi ain't so keen on punctuality and all."

Qui-Gon winked at his apprentice as they hurried along the bustling pedestrian arcade behind their enormous friend. Soon they found themselves at the brink of a seeming precipice, a repulsor platform where impatient diners milled about, waiting to be seated.

"But where's the…" Obi-Wan's question was answered before he could utter it. A hovering dining pod roughly the size of a magtrain carriage sidled up to the platform's edge and disgorged a company of drunken and rollicking Rodians. Wait-staff hurried inside to clear the table and lay new silver and linens. Standing on tiptoe to catch a better glimpse over Qui-Gon's shoulder, the young Jedi could see that the carriage was outfitted as a sumptuous dining room – one with four transparisteel walls _and_ a transparent floor. The repulsor unit was mounted on top, leaving the conveyance dangling in mid-air above the gaudily bedecked Belshuu district in all its sparkling neon glory. "Oh," he said, not at all certain about this new experience.

But he had little choice in the matter. Soon enough Dex and Qui-Gon had each cheerfully grasped him by an elbow and dragged him into a similar floating restaurant alcove, this one ready and waiting on the platform's far side. Another half dozen cars could be seen idly bobbing in queue, waiting to deliver or pick up guests. A frantic kitchen crew buzzed about on grav sleds, tending to each car as it approached.

"_Pie in the Sky_," Dex rumbled, settling himself to one side of the laden table. "Voted 'Most Scenic Dining on Coruscant' six years running. Folks've been known to kill to get a table here. Sit down, sit down."

The Jedi sat opposite, Qui-Gon beaming delightedly and Obi-Wan peering critically at the empty space beneath his boots, where the glittering city could be seen like some artful aquarium display. He dropped his cloak in a heap on the floor, deftly concealing the vertigo-inducing spectacle as the car lurched away from the platform and began its slow ambling circuit about the perimeter of the brightly-lit commercial district.

"Dig in," the Besalisk commanded, lifting the lid on the first of seven separate dishes. "My treat tonight, by the way." He bared a mouthful of viciously sharpened teeth, the Force alight with his sincere goodwill. "So, how's it feel to be, what is it now… eighteen standard, hm?"

"Hungry, for the most part," the Padawan confessed, eagerly helping himself to the banquet.

Dex served generous portions to Qui-Gon and himself, simultaneously uncorking a bottle of wine with his other hands. "I remember being a foolish lad yer age," he reminisced fondly. "Oh ho – most what I remember was a lass by the name of, oh… I forget 'er name." A wet chuckle, setting his throat sack to swelling. "But it's the experience that counts, now ain't it? _Tha's _ what brings us wisdom in the end."

The hovering car lazily bobbed along above the gaudy holoboards and flashing traffic lanes, surrounded on all sides by fluorescent opulence, but cozily buffered from any intrusive noise. They seemed to be encased in a bubble gently swirling down the surface of a tempestuous river. Qui-Gon caught his apprentice's eye and nodded subtly in approval or encouragement, handing him a brim-ful glass.

"Master…"

"Don't be shy, now," Dex grinned. "A toast, to yer health. May the Force be with ye, my young friend."

To Obi-Wan's astonishment, Qui-Gon drained his glass in one go, following the Besalisk's enthusiastic example. The Padawan cautiously sampled his own, and found it… intriguing.

Better than _fermis,_ certainly.

"Now," Dexter said, spreading one pair of giant hands upon the white table cloth. "I'll let ye in on all my latest news if ye promise to pay in kind. You Jedi are sure to have a good tale or two for the telling, an' we got hours. This box'll take us round the whole district afore we're done with dessert, an I've got another bottle ready here."

Obi-Wan flicked an uncertain glance at his mentor, but Qui-Gon merely leaned back in his seat and raised his brows, one arm reaching sideways to squeeze affectionately at his apprentice's shoulder

_Focus in the present moment, _came the unspoken reminder across the Force's ephemeral currents.

Obi-Wan smiled, and took another long sip of the wine.

* * *

Much later, the Padawan sprawled languidly in the aircar's passenger seat, gazing idly up at Coruscant's darkened skies as Qui-Gon piloted them back to the Temple precinct.

"You can see Vandor tonight – afternoon – morning… whichever it is," the young Jedi proclaimed, pointing to a brilliant speck on the horizon.

Qui-Gon lifted his brows fractionally, sparing his slightly befuddled apprentice an amused sideways glance. "Time is relative," he smiled. "But that, Obi-Wan, is a _moving_ star and therefore not a star at all, but a space vessel entering atmosphere."

"Oh." The Padawan did not make any strident objection when his mentor laid on yet more speed. "I was glad to see Dex again," he happily confided in the older man.

"He was very eager to introduce you to _Pie in the Sky,_" the Jedi master told him, "despite my caveat that you do not enjoy flying, as a rule."

"As a rule," Obi-Wan affably replied. "But tonight doesn't – doesn't _count."_

"I see," the tall man smirked, toying with a private temptation to keep a few bottles of rare vintage on hand for their next long space voyage.

His apprentice leaned back indolently in his seat, propping one boot up on the dashboard, watching without complaint as the endless cityscape sped by below, the aircar hurtling along at a velocity well past the legal limit. "It was a good celebration, master," he said. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." Qui-Gon's grey eyes flitted sideways again, humor crinkling their corners. "And I think when we return, it is high time you turned in for the night. Enough, ah…. _excitement_ for one day."

"Yes, master," the Padawan agreed, warm contentment radiating in the Force.

The Jedi master shook his head in amazement, chuckling very quietly to himself as he held them on a steady course homeward.


	5. Chapter 5

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

It might have been the wine, or an effect of the lurid hololights and striating marquee displays in the Belshuu district's dizzying air-lanes, or simply an excess of pent-up nervous energy.

But whatever the occult cause of his unrest, Obi-Wan could not sleep. He lay curled upon one side, the thermal blanket kicked in frustration to the smooth floor, his head resting in the crook of one arm. He kept a single small lamp burning in the corner – a gentle blue luminance holding absolute night at bay – because this was traditional, and because he once upon a time had childishly wished for the security it represented, the patient vigilance of Light, even in the midst of darkness.

He probably should dispense with the night-lamp…. Sometime when Qui-Gon was not present to observe and rebuke him for "morbid asceticism"… But then, deceiving one's master was a worse offense than clinging to an infantile prop…. Perhaps he should simply ask the Jedi master's permission… but that was _inane; _ who really gave a womprat's arse about a _nightlamp?_…. Well, _he_ did, obviously.

_Blast it. _ He rolled onto his back, exhaling in vexation.

_You think too much, Kenobi._ Siri Tachi's words rang in his ears, her voice as present to his imagination as a warm breath fluttering against his neck, the brush of fingers against his face, the warmth of her body pressed snugly against his side, a soft bulwark against chill and night –

And now he _truly_ couldn't sleep.

Twenty solemn intonations of the Extinction-of-All-Yearning-in-the-Balance-of-Unity mantra and one freezing cold shower later, he found himself once more curled upon the thoroughly disheveled sleep-mat, again contemplating the elusive nature of repose.

After contemplating it for ten solid minutes without making any progress toward ultimate enlightenment, he decided that further inaction was futile and that insomnia was to be welcomed as a friend, his body telling him that he had work still to do, just as pain was a friend bidding one to rest and heal.

Fine.

Five minutes after this realization, he was fully dressed and slipping out the door into the dimmed hallway, headed for the basement workshop where lightsaber components were available to the Temple's residents, a place where the most painstaking of crafts could be undertaken in safety and relative peace. If his mind was determined to be restless, despite all his training and self-control, he could at least occupy himself with something productive.

* * *

Unfortunately, in the absence of younglings, Master Huyang - the droid lightsaber construction expert – chose to pontificate to his unexpected and solitary audience of one.

"The creation of a Jedi's sacred weapon should not be undertaken as a frivolous hobby," he sniffed at the Padawan, agile manipulators fretting together as he hounded the young man's footsteps about the tidy workspace. "Ah – are there particular pieces you stand in need of?"

Obi-Wan tapped his 'saber's crenellated pommel. "Something to match this."

Master Huyang stared at the rounded component for a long while then shook his head. "Sorry – that's a custom piece. You'll have to make another." He waved vaguely in the direction of the mini-fusion cutters and welding equipment upon a nearby counter. "I take it this is a replacement, then?"

The tools were lightweight, easy to use. Obi-Wan rummaged about in the scrap bins for a suitable tritanium casting. "No."

The robotic expert peered over his shoulder, warbling electronically to himself. "Hm," he remarked, watching the Padawan start careful work on the new pommel ornament, "Aren't you going about this backward – traditionally –"

"Traditionally," the young Jedi interrupted, "The _Force_ guides the making of a lightsaber. Not a rulebook or instruction manual – even a talking one."

Affronted, the droid withdrew a few paces, but not so far that his pompous supervisory presence could not be felt. Obi-Wan sighed and turned his attention back to the pleasantly absorbing task, humming and then quietly singing to himself as he worked, the measured cadences of the Vetruvian modal chant a soothing counterweight to the tool's sharp buzzing. He rotated the metal disk in one hand, cutting notches along its protruding edge with the plasma saw. The grain of the tritanium was good, even and dense… perhaps he could buff it to a glittering sheen. Or maybe that would be too flamboyant. He preferred understated as a rule. And _this_ weapon… this hypothetical weapon, this barely conceived notion of his… it had a subtle, private meaning.

He could finish what he started. He _would._

* * *

"Ah… a ghost walks the halls of the Temple," Yan Dooku drawled, coming upon the Padawan wandering the main lower-level concourse.

Obi-Wan, finally more than ready to retire after several hours in the workshop, stopped in his somewhat trudging tracks and bowed to the older Jedi, noting that the man had just emerged from the Temple's transmission control center. "Master Dooku."

The silver-haired Jedi fell into step beside him, without invitation, a wan smile gracing his aquiline features. "They say, on Yarvox 6, that those who walk by night are conversant with spirits and may seek the counsel of the dead…. A quaint and picturesque superstition, no doubt."

"But which of us is the wanderer and which the spirit?" the Padawan inquired, lightly, wondering if the anecdote bore some hidden meaning, perhaps a subtle barb.

Dooku's grey eyes glinted with veiled amusement. "You, I would say, are half-dead on your feet – according to your recent habit. And I," he paused to lend delicate dramatic emphasis to his next statement, "I have been seeking counsel of the damned."

They passed into the adjoining corridor and ascended a broad flight of steps. "You have been waiting for word of Master Dyas," Obi-Wan concluded, boldly, since his companion seemed open to discussing his affairs – had indeed, introduced the topic of his own accord to one of far inferior rank.

"He is no longer a master of this Order," came the stern correction. "But yes… there are many watchful eyes in the galaxy, all seeking for him; but we have gleaned but little news of my treacherous old friend." He sighed. "I fear it may require the lure of irresistible bait to draw him into the open."

It was strange to be taken thus abruptly into the older man's confidence. "Bait, master?"

But an elegant wave of Dooku's hand dismissed the inquiry. "We shall see."

At the intersection of two soaring halls, their paths seemed to diverge. Still smarting from their recent encounter in the dojo, and unsure where precisely he stood with the revered master, Obi-Wan stopped and made the tall Jedi a respectful bow – but a light touch on his elbow stopped him before he could formally excuse himself.

"I was about to take tea, Padawan. Perhaps you would care to join me."

Caught off guard, but too wise to mistake such a command for an invitation, Obi-Wan nodded warily and followed behind the Sentinel as he led the way not to the nearby refectory but rather toward the fourth level west residential wing. Qui-Gon favored the east-facing walls of the Temple, and had reputedly gone to great lengths to obtain his present quarters, which included a coveted balcony graced every morning by dawn radiance. The corridors on this side were hushed and lit only with dim blue running lights at this midnight hour; not a soul was to be seen in all the long stretch of hall before them, the Force placid with the combined quietude of perhaps a score of Jedi, mostly reclusive personalities or older masters without Padawans. It was well known that the west-wing community jealously guarded its borders from invasion by the Temple's more boisterous residents – the difference being so subtle that no outsider would ever remark upon it, but so distinct in the Force that it caused endless headaches for the poor staff members charged with making order of the Jedi's various housing assignments. Maintaining harmony in a community of hundreds living in such close proximity required the tact and diplomatic skills of a Jedi - and occasionally proved a challenge even to those possessed of such extraordinary patience and ingenuity. Obi-Wan smiled tightly as Yarael Poof's wavering head emerged from a doorway and peered critically at him as he passed.

But he seemed to have attained the status of _acceptable,_ at least in the role of temporary visitor, for the Quermian councilor retreated into his own domain without issuing any protest. Gratified that he no longer qualified as a _raucous youngling,_ he lengthened his stride to catch up to Dooku, who waved open a panel at the passage's far end and ushered the Padawan into his own private domicile.

* * *

The Sentinel's chambers were spare – even more austere than typical Jedi quarters – and yet also endowed with a certain opulence, as though Dooku's asceticism precluded any luxury but the most rarefied one of beauty. The center of the room was dominated by an exquisite tapia-wood table, hand carved and polished to a near-metallic sheen, its surface gleaming like a chunk of obsidian beneath the delicate lamp above. Four meditation pads had been arranged about this centerpiece in stark symmetry, not a tear or worn patch showing in any of them. Obi-Wan wondered whether they were ever _used_, or merely adorned the space like museum pieces. There was no other furnishing in the common area, but the outside wall was provided with inset shelving, upon which the room's occupant had arranged a few actual _books –_ bound tomes, printed on thin parchment or flimsi, artifacts of a long forgotten age – and an odd collection of tokens and mementos from every corner of the galaxy.

The Padawan frowned, unused to such evidence of sentimentality. Qui-Gon often left _things_ lying about, garments or holobooks or seedling sprouts he had planted on a whim – sometimes in a tea cup, to the inexplicable annoyance of his apprentice – but he had never hoarded souvenirs, beyond the occasional rock or dried seed pod imbued with some esoteric private significance. Certainly none of these items were placed on _display _ in his quarters; they merely cluttered the surfaces, idly scattered about Qui-Gon's whirlwind serenity as leaves and twigs bedecked the feet of mighty trees in a forest.

Obi-Wan passed a hand over the contents of the nearest shelf, probing with the Force; and to his inward gaze, the various artifacts took on a clearer meaning; these were not sentimental tokens at all. They were… _trophies._

"Ah," Dooku remarked, as he emerged form the adjacent room with tray in hand, "Mementos of a somewhat chequered career."

The young Jedi let his hand drop away from the carefully chosen items, the severed heads of so many symbolic foes and obstacles. "Yes, master… I admit to feeling ill-traveled when I look at your collection."

Dooku set the tea things upon the gleaming black table and settled himself elegantly upon the nearest cushion, answering at least one of Obi-Wan's unvoiced questions. "But true parochialism is of the mind; I have known a sequestered monk on Teth as broad-minded as any Core sophisticate, and twenty times as wise for all his confinement; and I have met a spice smuggler who had been many times into uncharted space and seen indescribable wonders, but who was as narrow and prejudiced a prig as any rustic Outer Rim peasant. It is the spirit that roams at will or hunkers down into the complacency of platitude and opinion."

The Jedi master lectured and poured tea with consummate grace, as though to the manner born; Obi-Wan listened and drank in silence, the interior of the man's rooms appearing as a surreal theater scene to his over-tired senses.

"I am aware," the silver haired Jedi continued, "That you have been summoned to appear in the High Court's latest debacle. My condolences."

The Padawan set his bowl down. "I … it is my duty; I am the only witness capable of giving testimony. And I assure you, the case is cut and dry. Zan Arbor's crimes are so reprehensible –"

Dooku chuckled darkly. "It has been many a year since _justice_ was the purview of the Galactic Courts, my young friend. No, no – I assure you, this trial is merely a parade ground on which the merchandise will be exhibited, the final sale to be made to the highest bidder."

"What do you mean, master?" the elder Jedi's cynicism was almost intoxicating, a heady mixture of insight and contempt.

"I mean that her acquittal will be _purchased_ by the highest bidder – profitable for the judges and of course, for Zan Arbor herself – there is no more effective means of securing gainful employment than to be arraigned in a Judiciary on Coruscant." Dooku made an elegant gesture with one hand. "Justice would have been better served had your master destroyed her when he had the chance."

Obi-Wan swallowed, recalling the terrible moment when Qui-Gon had teetered on the brink of vengeance, the vile scientist's life hanging in the balance.

"But not the ultimate good. He would have embraced anger, had he done so."

Dooku regarded his earnest visitor thoughtfully. "He has taught you well," he said, after a weighted pause. "There is little use in speculating on the past. It cannot be undone."

"It has taken more than two years for this trial to come to court," the Padawan pointed out. "If it the judiciary were as corrupt as you say, surely its progress would not be so complex and slow-moving? On Hutt worlds, matters such as this are settled within _days."_

Dooku sighed, draining his cup. "Perhaps our vaunted democracy is merely a slower-rotting form of the same cancer,"" he suggested.

"Master! We are sworn to uphold democracy! The Republic!"

"Of course we are, boy – but ask yourself this: would you cater to the whim of a senile man, or rather act in his own best interest, regardless of his ravings?"

"The latter of course." Obi-Wan drew in a deep centering breath; it was too late at night, or early in the morning, for such convoluted discussions of political ethics. He should have made some excuse and declined the elder Jedi's imperious invitation.

"The Order likewise must act in the Republic's best interest – whether or not the doddering legislature and justice system has any notion what that might be. Otherwise, we are merely the pawns of a childish tyrant, not the guardians of peace."

The Padawan dipped his head, in agreement or in deference, or perhaps in weary confusion.

"I have kept you too long already," Dooku smiled. "Forgive me. I must return to my task, and you to your rest… my greetings to Qui-Gon, when you see him."

"I will convey your regards, master."

As he wandered back through the Temple's hushed and empty halls to his own quarters, Obi-Wan could not shake the feeling that he had somehow temporarily stumbled into the future's shrouded realm, into a dream-world halfway between harsh waking and seductive vision.

Hand closing about his 'saber's hilt, he anchored himself in the present moment, quickening his stride toward the welcome refuge of home, and sanity… and his sleep mattress..


	6. Chapter 6

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Qui-Gon Jinn rose just before dawn, mind and body attuned to the planet's slow diurnal procession, to the subtle circadian rhythms of life on the teeming world of trillions. He knelt to meditate, to touch the Force and to center himself for the day's tasks, and then dressed and passed through his darkened quarters to the balcony, from whence he could see dawn teetering on Coruscant's hard-edged rim, vermillion pennants already streaming upward from the hidden star along the gaudy curve of sky.

When the first blinding beam of radiance broke over the city's distant silhouette, he inhaled, and went to prepare tea, and then to rouse his apprentice. Qui-Gon had never understood the boy's habitual early morning lassitude; on occasion this deficit in Obi-Wan's otherwise agreeable temperament actually caused friction between them, especially since the Padawan's sharp tongue was the only part of him amenable to early rising – it would often spring from sleep in ruthlessly fine fettle, while prudence and self-control were still groggily stirring toward wakefulness.

There was no _excuse _ for an aspiring Jedi to be so irrationally prejudiced against mornings; it would clearly take another five years' hard training to instill a proper attitude in the Padawan, who had improved his outlook not one iota in the last half-decade. Not that Qui-Gon would ever append the label _slothful_ to his diligent and perfection-seeking apprentice… it would be more accurate to say that the tall man found the young Jedi's lack of enthusiasm for anything scheduled before sixth hour to be utterly inexplicable: an absurd non sequitur in the composition of an otherwise sound and intelligent mind.

The Jedi master waved open the second bedroom's door and peered in, eyebrows contracting in a bemused frown as he gazed upon the dimly lit spectacle within. Obi-Wan's boots had been discarded by the bedside, but that appeared to be the sum total of his efforts at getting undressed. The Padawan lay prostrate upon the sleep-mattress, cloak bunched around his shoulders, one stockinged foot dangling over the cot's edge, face comfortably half-buried in the wadded pillow, the Force itself quiescent and soothing, pulsing in gentle harmony with the young Jedi's deep and untroubled breaths.

For a moment the master pondered by what means to wake the blissful sleeper from his too-prolonged rest… but then, unexpectedly, a pang of sentimentality stayed his hand. It _had_ been a late night, and they _had_ indulged somewhat more – in Obi-Wan's case, quite a bit more – than was their wont. And there was time yet… before they must face the burdens of the meeting ahead. He decided to break with custom, just this once. Letting the door slide closed again with a soft hush of pressure pistons, he slipped back into the common room to enjoy his morning tea in solitude.

* * *

"We are not to meet in the Council chamber?"

Qui Gon made a polite half-bow to a small knot of other masters passing by on this level. "No; since this conference involves a non-Jedi visitor, Master Windu deemed it best to use one of the hospitality rooms." He stopped at the designated door, and passed his hand over the lock control plate.

Obi-Wan followed him into the sunlight lounge, a nook built into the Temple's outer wall and provided with a tall elliptical window through which late morning sunshine spilled onto a polished wooden table and a floor laid in muted tiles of blue and cream, the dome-topped space soothing and not constructed on the same grand scale as the Temple's other vast halls and concourses – a place where outsiders might find the majesty of the Force more proportioned to their understanding and sensibilities. It had been a recent add-on, part of an effort to render the Order less… intimidating.

Qui-Gon liked the place.

Obi-Wan found it amusing, his eyebrows arching ironically upward, blue eyes twinkling with contained mirth as he caught his mentor's gaze.

_Master Windu does not match the décor,_ came the inevitable unspoken jest, the thought projected clearly across their bond, if not in words then in substantial meaning and nuance.

Qui-Gon pressed his lips together, suppressing a smile. The revered Korun Jedi was many things… but _relatable_ was probably not one of them.

Mace's dark eyes narrowed as he sensed the basic tenor of their mute exchange. "Padawan Kenobi," he said, voice rolling with authority, one hand extended toward the chair directly to his left. "Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable."

The young Jedi abruptly sobered and took his assigned place with a deferent nod. Qui-Gon took up a position on the opposite side of the low central table.

"You _are_ the central attraction at this sideshow," Mace added, addressing the Padawan. "I'd like to know your thoughts on the matter… before we officially begin."

Obi-Wan shot a silent, fleeting glance in his mentor's direction, and received a subtle nod in reply. Permission to speak freely being thus granted, he plunged in headfirst. "I have a bad feeling about it, Master Windu."

Qui-Gon winced, but the Councilor seemed pleased by this revelation. "Good," he grunted, deep voice conveying a textured cynicism. "I would be worried about your naiveté if you didn't." He cocked an eyebrow at the other man. "I'm quite sure your master has not spared you his views on the judiciary system."

"I have heard that the courts do occasionally reach a just resolution," the young Jedi replied, cautiously. "And I do understand that we must cooperate to the fullest extent possible. Jedi are not aloof from the law."

Mace steepled his fingers, a glint of approval in his eyes. "Agreed. Neither, however, are we _tools_ of a corrupt system." He paused, letting the implications of this statement settle in. "There are those who would bend the justice system to their own ends… and those who believe the Republic has outgrown need of peacekeepers."

Obi-Wan blinked. "You mean, the Jedi Order?"

The Korun nodded. "Exactly. Unfortunately, Zan Arbor's defense attorney will likely present her as the victim of Jedi persecution. That misrepresentation could blind the jury even to overwhelming evidence of cruelty and abuse."

"What about the prosecutor?" the Padawan inquired. "Surely the court has appointed someone who is not so hostile?"

Mace said nothing for a long space of breaths. "The prosecutor is an unknown factor," he sighed. "He is a distant cousin of the current Chancellor. It is said he owes his position to Valorum's influence, and has ambitions to rise even higher, by similar means."

Qui-Gon watched his apprentice digest this information, the tell-tale line appearing between his brows.

"You mean he will manage this case, and the trial, in a politically expedient manner?"

Mace merely spread his hands. "That remains to be seen. But I fear this litigator may prove malleable – in the hands of bribery or intimidation, or both." He leaned back in his chair, gaze meeting Qui-Gon's levelly.

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. "I see, master. He is a well-intentioned coward."

It was not the Jedi way to blunt the truth for the sake of niceties; both elder men favored the direct approach. Still, the Korun master fixed the quietly outraged Padawan with a penetrating stare. "Be that as it may, the Council expects _you_ to be wary and wise. You will be representing the Order in a very public capacity, as well as serving the Republic. Be mindful of your role as a Jedi, and of the Force's guidance. I have already spoken with Master Yoda; we have agreed to look upon this as a trial of skill."

This pronouncement caught master and apprentice equally off-balance. A flare of alarm arced between them in the Force - the younger Jedi's startled glance at his teacher an easily interpreted question, the older man's wide-eyed shake of the head a clear denial. Mace Windu smiled to himself, observing the lighting-swift interplay with grave equanimity.

Before another word could be uttered, the door opened to admit the Grand Master and a thin, watery-eyed man whose narrow shoulders stooped beneath the weight of his brocaded barrister's gown. The three already present rose and bowed deeply to Yoda.

"Please, please, there's no need – do be seated," the litigator mumbled, waving them back into their chairs.

All four Jedi exchanged guarded looks, Qui-Gon and Mace brimming with vexation while Obi-Wan's and Yoda's shared amusement exploded in the Force like a double firework display. Masters Jinn and Windu cleared their throats in unison, bringing the smaller members of the Order back to present-minded focus. Yoda's ears perked, and he spared the Padawan a sly wink as he hobbled forward and shimmied his way into one of the broad conference chairs, where his grotty robes and shriveled frame were dwarfed by the lush upholstery.

"Zuul Sangu," the tiny Jedi chuffed, indicating their guest with a sweep of his clawed hand. "Know him already by reputation you may."

Gratified, the lawyer hemmed and coughed modestly, then nervously opened his briefing case and withdrew a stack of datapads. "Ah… which of you is Master Kenobi?" he asked, in a thin and wheedling voice.

"None of us.. yet," Obi-Wan replied, the faintest smirk still tugging at his mouth. "But I think I am the person you are here to meet."

The litigator's face fell as he regarded his principal witness. "Oh.. I see. Yes. Yes. the reports did not say…" he checked his briefing materials. "Oh, yes. Good heavens, fifteen standard at time of incident… I merely assumed, based on the eloquence of the first hand witness account…"

"Age is inconsequential," Mace broke in, his baritone a sharp contrast to Sangu's reedy tones. "Padawan Kenobi's prior statements and present judgment are reliable. He has the full backing of the Order, and the Courts will recognize that authority."

"I hope so," the edgy barrister muttered, rubbing his long hands together. "Now, let's see… yes, so many details to settle… ah.. well. Naturally I will need to speak with you at length, ah…?"

"Padawan."

The man mouthed the unfamiliar title cautiously. "Padawan Kenobi, yes. And I understand the other Jedi witness is currently unavailable?"

"Understood rightly you did." Yoda's imperious glare forbade further prurient questions.

"Dear me, dear me… anyhow, the judge has ordered that all witnesses be housed at 400 Republica during pre-trial and the proceedings, for security reasons."

"Stay at the Temple, Obi-Wan will," Yoda interrupted. "Jedi prerogative is this. Check statutes you may, if doubt there is."

The thin man stared at the ancient Jedi, somewhat taken aback. "Oh – well, then… we shall have to arrange security for transportation back and forth – I'll need to file for a separate vehicular –"

"He will be provided with a Jedi security detail and transport," Mace interrupted him. "We will not accept any other arrangement. I am sure the Chancellor will concur," he added, with a slight emphasis on the latter assertion.

Sanguu's pale eyes widened, and then blinked owlishly. "Oh – oh, I see. Yes, well, I suppose that is allowable… Jedi security for a Jedi – irregular but these things are your purview…"

"With your permission," Qui-Gon addressed the two Council members.

"Master Jinn assigned to this task is," Yoda decided, snorting loudly and clasping his hands about the haft of his stick. "Our own resources will we employ for this purpose."

The lawyer hunkered down amid his 'pads again, shuffling several of the glowing screens onto the table. "Well, then… there are some papers to be signed, and so forth…" He forced a feeble laugh. "We ordinary folk have to do the paperwork properly, you know, can't just wave a hand and make it disappear so to speak, ha ha."

His little jest fell lamentably flat, but the fussily preoccupied man did not seem to notice.

* * *

She was asleep when he arrived.

Qui-Gon gently settled himself upon the cot's edge, stroking two fingers along a length of unbound hair. It was brittle, lusterless. "Tahl," he sighed.

Her eyes remained closed, but a wasted hand stirred, seeking his. Their fingers twined.

"How are you?" he asked, helplessly. The answer was plain to see; and yet he craved affirmation that the Light shone unsullied beneath decaying flesh.

"I'm… weary, Qui."

A strong wave crested in the Force, a rich bounty of vitality and strength rolling across the invisible plenum. His gift crashed upon her shores then trickled away like an ebbing tide, leaving sands only dampened by the influx. Tahl smiled weakly, some private joke between them. "… sweep me off my feet," she murmured.

Her entire hand fit snugly within his broad palm. His fingers closed over it like a delicate bird, exerting the softest of pressures. "Zan Arbor has come to trial," he told her in a subdued tone.

This elicited a spark of interest, and a frown. "In the High Court?"

"Yes… Obi-Wan has been summoned to give testimony."

She struggled to sit up; he slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and hauled her seemingly weightless frame upward, to the consternation of the bio-monitor. He silenced it with a curt flick of the wrist.

"Where is he?" she demanded. "I can feel him nearby."

"Ben To is looking at his shoulder again – they're down the corridor."

Tahl released a long breath, leaning closer. "Qui : this is more important than anything else. Your research –"

"I have discovered an ancient meditative practice," he told her, pressing forward before she could override him. "One I wish to share with you. Tahl –"

"No, you gundark." She collapsed against the pillows, voice trailing off in exhaustion. "_Let go._ And send Obi-Wan in here."

But he did not let go, her hand still cupped tenderly in his own. "He'll come… Tahl –"

"I'm tired," she complained, feebly tugging her hand out of his grasp.

He bent his head, eyes liquid with futile protest.

"Tell him to come sing to me," she whispered, pain flitting over her haggard face. "…I'm so blasted _tired."_

He nodded, watching in mute agony as she sunk back into restless slumber.

* * *

"All right, Padawan, you win this round. I'm going to clear you for _light_ exercise – stop grinning like a Wookiee on his wedding day, that does not mean lawless melee in the salles, for stars' sake. _Light_ exertion – just enough to keep limber and continue recovering full range of motion. Perhaps beginning kata. No actual _sparring."_

Ben To Li planted his feet in battle stance and prepared for full frontal assault, but his young patient was in an unexpectedly cooperative mood.

"I understand, Master Li. That seems reasonable."

"What?' The healer's bushy eyebrows shot upward to his hairline. "You are capitulating? Accepting terms without negotiation?"

"Yes, master… perhaps it would be wise to send a message detailing your instructions to Master Drallig. I have been studying advanced saber forms under him – I would not want there to be any confusion on the matter."

Ben To's dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're up to something, you conniving akk pup – don't deny it, I can _sense_ your duplicitous intentions quite clearly. I'm not Force-blind, you know."

Obi-Wan pressed a hand to his chest. "I'm wounded, master… Bant, he's accused me of trickery when I'm striving so hard to reform myself."

The Mon Cal blinked at him slowly, hands on hips. "I'll believe it when I see it," she snorted, unhelpfully.

"I'll talk to Cin _in person,"_ Ben To promised. "Basic forms only. Theoretical or meditative applications, no actual combat. I want those glenohumeral ligaments _completely_ restored before you go bashing about like a heathen berserker again – not that it did you any good the first time, obviously."

The Padawan was visibly affronted. "I didn't have my _saber!"_ he protested. "Had I, the droid would have been a scrap pile." He crossed his arms. "Not that it survived the encounter, anyway," he growled, as an aside.

The healer idly perused the electronic chart, scrolling through the datafields with a preoccupied air. "Hm. And where pray tell was your _saber? _ That weapon is your life, and in this case its absence very nearly meant the corresponding negation of your existence. Think how bored we would all be here in the healers' ward without you – very inconsiderate of you to be so cavalier with your own person."

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," the young Jedi muttered acidly.

"Good. Then you won't mind if we bring your vaccinations up to date. I see you've just passed your eighteenth, and that means I get to dose you up with a few choice ones. Bant, here's the list – step lively now, Padawan Kenobi is anxious to comply. It's all part of his reformation."

Bant shot her friend a rueful smile as she stepped into the corridor.

"Wait a moment, " Obi-Wan protested. "According to Coruscanti law, all persons having attained legal majority are entitled to full disposition of their own medical –"

"According to Temple precept," Ben To blithely interrupted, "Your _master_ could override your refusal, and order you to shut your mouth, drop your britches and take it like a _man_ while I stick your impertinent backside four or five times. Let's ask him, shall we – he's just down the hall."

The Padawan glowered mutinously at this proposal, arms folded tight across his chest. "Fine," he grunted. "Just get it over with."

Ben To Li chuckled darkly. "I was wrong, " he confessed with smug satisfaction. "You _lose_ this round."


	7. Chapter 7

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

"Yes, Ben-To Li made a pilgrimage here to lay down the law in person," the Temple's resident weapons-master observed kindly, folding his hands behind his back and studying the Padawan carefully. "The strictures were very clear."

Obi-Wan nodded earnestly. "It will be difficult to resist temptation – unless, of course I can find some engrossing new discipline. I've mastered all the basic katas already, so I was hoping perhaps you could give direction?"

Cin Drallig's broad features widened further as he permitted himself a small smile. "You wish to _branch off?_ Oh ho – well," he said, warming to the idea. "Since it's purely for theoretical and meditative purposes, to aid your recuperation, I'm sure Master Jinn would not object to one of the lesser forms."

The young Jedi disguised his glee as sober agreement. "Yes, master – he does not hold with variant disciplines as a rule, but we've done some quarterstaff training… " He trailed off, politely inviting further input.

The weapons-master led the way into the corridor, pale hair brushed back neatly over his powerful shoulders. "The stave katas are beautiful exercises, and there are a few traditional meditative practices associated - but even so, I suspect the practice weapons might prove too unwieldy. You want something focusing on fluidity and grace, speed and cunning. I wonder…"

"Yes?" All curious innocence, the Padawan halted, waiting upon the older Jedi's expert opinion.

Master Drallig's eyes glinted with enthusiasm. "The staff is for someone of bulk and height, not a slim build. However, we should practice what suits us best. It's been a long time since I've taught the Ataru double-blade variant – it's quite complex, difficult – but I think it would suit you beautifully. There are some authorities who consider it the fair equal of Makashi for elegance. Of course, many Jedi are opposed on principle to the use of a _shoto."_

"But this is merely a theoretical study," Obi-Wan reminded him.

"True. There is little harm in broadening your repertoire of kata. We shall begin tomorrow, if your leisure permits, at sixth hour."

The Padawan's mouth twisted ruefully at one corner, but he covered his dismay with a grateful bow. "Yes, master. I will be punctual."

"Oh." The swords-master hesitated in the doorway to his largest classroom, "And you can prepare beforehand by looking up the relevant historical and technical tractates in the Archives. Master Seva wrote some excellent reflections on the form."

"I will, Master Drallig – and thank you."

* * *

"Stars' end! It's Kenobi - my favorite son of a pompous gundark!"

Obi-Wan shot Garen Muln a quelling look over one shoulder, setting his tray upon the gleaming countertop, where the attendant served him a heaping portion of _pellzah_.

"Thank you," he told the young initiate manning the serving station – clearly the subject of some imposed term of _humility_ as a kitchen staff assistant. The boy blushed violently, eyes taking in the Padawan's braid and weapon with wistful yearning.

Garen stepped nearer, breathing the next affectionate taunt in his friend's ear. "Thought you were too old and worldly-wise to grace us with your presence any more." The young server filled Garen's bowl with steaming _pellzah_ and waved them onward, too mortified by his present task and their sympathetic smiles to muster up any words.

"I've been too sophisticated for your company since I was four years old, Garen."

They found an empty table, private enough to suit their shared preference for personal space, and conveniently distant from Master Corr Attu's critical gaze.

"Right. Like you never enjoyed wrestling or food fights in the clan dorm."

"Noblesse oblige, my friend. I was coming down to your level for the sake of friendship."

They tucked in with mirrored enthusiasm, equally ravenous after the long morning's tasks.

"Whatever," Padawan Muln snorted, between mouthfuls. "Reeft and Bant and I were just wondering what your hoity-toity self has been up to – haven't seen you in days."

Obi-Wan's brows rose delicately. "Recuperating from injury," he replied. "Luckily for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A bland smile, conveying ironic detachment. "If I weren't such a cripple, I would _not only haul you into the river myself, but jump in after and drown you, too."_

It took the other Padawan some time to recover from his coughing fit. Obi-Wan politely offered him a hand-cloth, which he accepted, eyes streaming.

"You barve – how did you know-"

"I know _everything_," Obi-Wan informed him, severely. His fulminating expression melted into an impish grin. "Because _I_ am a grown-up."

Garen Muln threw the soiled cloth at his face, only to have his missile easily deflected with a casual flick of the Force. It landed on the tiled floor and promptly became tangled in a servitor droid's shuffling feet, sending the unfortunate automaton tumbling forward, stack of dishes and utensils flying out of its grasp-

-to float in midair, suspended. The droid was gently set back upright, and its various burdens neatly settled back upon its tray.

Master Corr Attu lowered his outstretched hand and fixed the two reprobates with a look that required no verbal counterpart to make its meaning known. The two Padawans rose, and hastily bowed their apologies, and beat a strategic retreat before further punishment could be exacted - leaving their half-finished meals for the droid to tidy up.

* * *

On his way to the Archives, Obi-Wan was intercepted by Docent Vann again. Shaking off the niggling feeling that she was stalking him, he made a gracious bow and waited for whatever unsavory news the unfortunate messenger had to bring this time.

Apparently there hadn't been time to prepare a data pad, for she bombarded him with the next unpleasant Council dictate directly. "Oh, Padawan Kenobi," the brusque woman informed him. "Master Windu requests that you report to the fifth level hospitality lounge immediately – there is a visitor from outside the Temple who wishes an interview with you."

More legal nonsense. "Thank you. I am on my way," he responded, already changing direction and heading back at a brisk clip for the nearest lift tube. A _request_ from Mace Windu was, of course, a mandate; he lengthened his stride and nipped into the carriage before anyone else could commandeer the lift.

Master Windu was waiting outside the now-familiar reception room, his Force presence filling the corridor to overflowing. One or two other passers-by hugged the opposite wall, giving the glowering Korun a wide and respectful berth. Obi-Wan dipped his head, hoping to smother his smile of amusement before he drew level with the intimidating Councilor. Clearly, Zuul Sangu had been ruffling feathers again.

"Kenobi," the tall dark-complexioned Jedi addressed him when he presented himself with a deep bow. "Chancellor Valorum has opted to exercise his prerogatives and ignore my advice concerning this matter; we have a … guest… who would like a private conference with you."

"A guest?" Not Sangu. But who, then?

Mace Windu's expressive mouth thinned, thunderheads gathering on the Force's invisible horizon. "A pabulum-monger," he growled. "Despite my strongly stated aversion to such a thing, the Chancellor thinks a _public relations_ campaign will help palliate public concerns over Zan Arbor's impending trial."

Obi-Wan absorbed this bizarre news as best he could, eyes shifting to the closed door behind the tall Jedi master. He could sense a _very_ inquisitive presence on its opposite side. "If there is public concern, then this case has somehow been made common knowledge," he said, queasily contemplating the prospect of his _encounter_ with the fanatic scientist being a subject of housewives' gossip and holonet speculation.

"Zan Arbor's litigator has been busily propagating a smear campaign against the Order in general," The Councilor explained, succinctly. He fixed his young comapnion with a penetrating stare. "Let us not feed any fuel to the fire, am I understood?"

Well. "Yes, master, of course." It took conscious effort not to quail beneath the Korun's withering regard. He hesitated, waiting for the higher ranking Jedi to lead the way inside.

But the older man lingered outside the door. "I have just been summoned to an important council meeting with Master Dooku," he informed the Padawan. "I won't be able to –_supervise_ this little playdate."

So. He was being thrown into the deep end on his own. "Yes, master."

"I trust you can handle this situation; you've proved your diplomatic skills on other occasions."

Fine. He would _demonstrate_ his competency yet again, especially since others were obviously more than happy to delegate the odious task. "I'll do my best, master."

"Good." Mace's mien softened minutely as he waved the door open. In fact, Obi-Wan was certain he caught the faintest suggestion of an _eye-roll_ as the Councilor ushered him into the warmly lit chamber. "May the Force be with you," he added, sotto voce, the overtone of sarcasm unmistakable.

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the hovering camdroid, a spheroid pest circling gnat-like in one corner of the domed ceiling. It battened onto him immediately, zooming forward for a close-up shot, huge lens eye staring shamelessly at its subject. Obi-Wan waved it away with the Force, focusing on the tall humanoid striding forward to greet him.

"Ah!" this person bellowed with affected joviality. "You must be Padawan Kenobi. A pleasure. Baro Spekkopolos." A broad hand was thrust in the young Jedi's direction. "I'm sure you know me, at least by reputation. But have no fear – I'm here to build bridges, not point fingers."

Obi-Wan bowed deeply, keeping his hands folded inside opposite sleeves. "And we are here to serve."

The holonet reporter or pundit or whatever he was dropped his extended hand, the ingratiating smile still plastered on his face. "By the way, my friends call me just plain Spekk. Feel free."

"Won't you have a seat, Mr. Spekkopolos?" The Padawan courteously extended a hand toward the low couches in the room's center.

Not taken aback in the least, the journalist plopped himself down upon the nearest cushion and propped elbows on knees, rubbing his hands together. "Right. Now: I've been specially commissioned to do a bit of public relations work, you understand? Make the Jedi Order more accessible, more _sympathetic_ to the common Galactic citizen. An insider's look at the people and faces behind the mystique, that sort of thing. You follow?"

"All too well." Obi-Wan sat across from his interlocutor, again subtly flicking the droid out of camera range.

"Good, good. So…. let's start with a few questions. You're about to become a young celebrity of sorts, you realize this?"

The Padawan's brows rose. "Jedi do not crave recognition or public accolades –"

Spekkopolos brushed this aside with a snort and a wave of the hand. "Your name's all over the 'net already, kid. Listen: let's make sure _we_ put the right spin on this, okay? Otherwise the opposition's got free rein to make what they want of the Jedi image. Could hurt the case in the long run – juries and judges ain't immune from subliminal messages, you know. They're already working the _mysterious cult persecutes independent thinking scientist_ angle, right? So we gotta bust some of the negative myths surrounding you people. Just trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"I have no doubt."

The dry undercurrent of this statement sailed over the journalist's head, leaving not a ripple in his bright composure. "You mind if the droid gets a few zoom shots? I'm just looking at ya and thinking we got some good material for the ladies' holozine press release – picture's worth a thousand words and all."

Cooperation was one thing; encouraging voyeurism another. A quick Force-directing snap of the wrist shorted out the floating camera's repulsor unit. The heavy sphere thudded to the carpet. "I'm afraid your droid is malfunctioning," Obi-Wan observed blandly.

"Well, vape," the journalist exclaimed, scowling at his inexplicably blitzed equipment. "No worries- we'll get around to that another day. Just work with me here, okay? I need to build up the _human _ element a bit. Gimme something to work with –personal details. Friends, hobbies, interests, that sort of thing."

Let's us not feed any fuel to the fire, am I understood? Obi-Wan racked his brains for some snippet of information that would render the Order more… relevant to common life. On the other hand, Dexter Jettster accepted the Jedi Order just as it was, demanding nothing and merely laughing at those parts of his friends' lives that he did not share.

"With respect, I don't think that's really necessary. I can explain our customs and principles, of course … understanding differences is more important than seeking trivial similarities."

Spekkopolos tilted his head to one side. "All right – you're gonna make me pull teeth. Let me just ask a few questions – bet I can get a rise outta you, kiddo. Let's see…. You gotta girlfriend, now?"

The Padawan's color rose, betraying him to his observant companion. "The Jedi Code does not permit –"

"Oh, so you got one the Code doesn't permit?" Now the reporter was genuinely intrigued.

"I did not – that is not- _no."_

"That's all right, that's all right. I don't want to get you in _trouble._ So let's do hobbies. How do you spend your spare time – you know, when you aren't studying or on a mission?"

The Padawan frowned, still unsettled by the last exchange. "Training, meditation, research, additional studies, occasionally the cultivation of other skills such as mechanical knowledge or language acquisition. There is much to be done – and we do not typically have a great deal of leisure time." There. A true response. He could cooperate.

Spekkopolos shook his head, grinning wolfishly. "Loosen up, come on! What do you do for _fun - _ you've got friends your own age, I just know it. How do you blow off steam? You guys ever go out to the holo-flicks? Hit a few clubs, do some dancing? Uuntz concerts? Scramball matches? Or, uh… maybe you get up to things with that not-a -girlfriend of yours on the side, eh?" A calculating look followed this jibe.

The man was intolerable. "On occasion, I will peruse a popular holo-doc as an exercise in fatuity," Obi-Wan offered, acidly.

The journalist narrowed his eyes further . "Look, kid, my job here is to make you _likable_, get it? Chancellor's orders – not my choice, believe me. You Jedi guys serve the Republic, right- so how 'bout a bit more cooperation? Cough up some answers for me now and we can both be done with this bum assignment."

The Padawan bristled. Mace Windu's injunction rang in his ears – but then, Master Windu hadn't seen fit to endure this torment himself, had he? And no Padawan could be blamed for shirking what a Master dared not undertake. His brows rose. "You wish me to _lie?_ I would by no means tarnish your professional honor with half-truths and fictions. You _do_ have a reputation to maintain."

Spekkolos leaned back in his seat, mouth pressed into a vexed line. He jerked a thumb at the doorframe. "Your superiors _tell_ you to come in here and be a little chizzsk to me?"

"They did not employ that turn of phrase, no." Though what exact terms they might employ should the contents of this exchange reach their revered ears, he did not care to speculate.

The man laid an arm along the couch's plush back. "So where do we go from here? I can't help you if we don't meet halfway, kid."

Obi-Wan's tongue ran ahead of his self control. "I am sworn to uphold truth; you, on the other hand, serve the popular media_._ It seems unlikely that we will meet anywhere _at all."_ The words hung between them, edged with sardonic dismissal. He cursed himself inwardly; some show of _diplomacy_ he was making here.

"You know, if you weren't a Jedi, I'd say your mother didn't spank you enough – of course, you probably don't even remember her, am I right?"

A flare of _something_ indefinable leapt in the Force; but Spekkopolos was blind to its subtle warning. The man pushed harder, sensing only a sudden vulnerability. "I mean, she dumped you off here in weirdo cult land when you were just a wee lad, right?"

"Thereby doing me the greatest of services, for which I honor her," came the tight reply.

"I'd say she did your _homeworld_ the greatest of services," the reporter riposted, with a smug smile. "Hey- let's talk about your _mother._ That's something anyone can understand… well, except you, maybe."

"What do you mean?" _Control, control, control_. He squirmed a bit, still stung by a barb neither of them could accurately identify.

The journalist leaned forward, "I mean, you don't know the first thing about your mother – bet you've never even bothered to look up her name. You hold yourself aloof from that stuff, right? Your mother could be dead, for all you know, and you wouldn't even care – betcha wouldn't even grieve, eh- no attachments and all, eh? You wouldn't have the first clue what it means to lose someone you love, a family member, right? What's that like – what's it like to grow up _Jedi, _ huh?

The world seemed to slow to a crawl, the walls of the hospitality lounge contracting to a smothering narrowness. The young Jedi's lip curled defensively, heart pounding beneath his ribs. "Blessedly free of ignorant prurience, for the most part," he snarled, heedless of consequences.

The pundit threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Hokay, smart-ass. This interview is getting nowhere fast. You got a better idea how to run this show?"

He did; it involved his lightsaber and quite a number of things that were utterly and absolutely forbidden.

"Well? I'm open to suggestions here."

_Oh really? In that case_…. "You want to go home and rethink your life," Obi-Wan told him, making a small gesture of compulsion with one hand. He smiled acerbically. "Just a suggestion."

Dazed into compliance, Spekkopolos packed up his droid and recorder equipment, bumbling toward the door and the young initiate assigned to escort him to the public hangar bay.

The Padawan waited a few moments after the man had departed, smoothing his own strangely ruffled feathers, wrestling his undefined _feelings _back under control_, _ and reeling in shock at his own conduct.

"Blast it."

Several deep calming breaths later, he finally took his leave, deeply disturbed and profoundly relieved at once.

* * *

The Archives proved a welcome retreat for the better part of the afternoon and evening.

Obi-Wan levitated the relevant tome down from its high perch amid the Archives' flickering holobook stacks and checked the title and volume number, adding his prize to the small pile tucked beneath his left arm.

"There you are."

"Master." He had sensed the tall man's approach, and vice versa; the spoken greeting was a mere formality. They turned down the long glowing corridor and into the central aisle, where bronzium busts of the Lost Ones mournfully watched their progress toward the record-keeping desk and then the exit.

"What have you there?" Qui-Gon inquired, filching the topmost book and turning the hefty holotext over in his hand. "History of the Teth Dynasties – Volume the _Twenty-Third?… _ You are a glutton for punishment, Padawan mine."

"By definition, if I am your Padawan." Obi-Wan neatly dodged the Jedi master's attempt to swat him with the flickering tome.

Qui-Gon's mouth twitched, and he jerked his head backward, indicating that his student should adopt the _traditional _ position to his left and one step behind, passing the holobook back to its present owner as his apprentice fell into proper place with a bow deep enough to conceal any sign of amusement.

"Mace sent a message by 'link to say you had an interview with the _media_ today?"

The Padawan slipped the dynastic histories atop Master Seva's commentary on lesser known saber styles, and responded with a soft snort. "Interview would imply that both participants were fully sentient beings," he quipped.

"You are too humble, Obi-Wan."

They took the wide steps up to the main concourse three at a time, cloaks skirling at their heels.

Obi-Wan deemed it wise to shift the focus of their conversation before he was obliged to reveal too many details of his encounter with the holonet reporter. "What of your own studies, master?"

Qui-Gon slowed at the head of the stairs, allowing his apprentice to draw level with him again. He looked down in to the younger man's face, into a pair of grave eyes that spoke the burning question too _improper_ to be voiced aloud. "Patience," he advised. "I will share with you what I have learned when the time is right." He inhaled deeply, looking inward to the ever-present Force. "I am not even ready myself, I fear."

_For what?_ came the involuntary addition across their bond. Obi-Wan glanced down, mortified by the slip. "I am sorry, master – it's not my place –"

"Come," the Jedi master said, firmly, leading the way onward to their quarters. "Let us enjoy a tranquil evening. A trying day lies ahead and we both have much to contemplate."

It was a fair proposal. They walked on in companionable silence.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"You're here early, young one."

She looked thin-beaten, skin hammered fine over high cheekbones, bones a visible armature beneath wasted muscle. The Force burned clear, unveiled – a lantern set to ward off evil, like the festival Spirit Lamps on Felucia during carnival season.

"I've been practicing early with Master Drallig. Here, I brought you tea – real _tarine,_ not the beastly healers' rubbish."

Tahl managed a dry chuckle. "Help me sit up."

There was no bio-monitor any longer. Obi-Wan looked about the bare room, confused.

"I told Ben To to take it away," she informed him. "Blasted nuisance. Don't need it to tell me I'm dying."

He spilled on his trousers' knee and flinched as the scalding liquid burned through the cloth.

"What are you doing with Cin?" Tahl changed the topic fluidly, sightless eyes searching the air, seeking for a familiar face she could trace only in memory.

"Kata. Just some basics, nothing strenuous."

"Really." A long appreciative sip of her beloved _tarine_ brew. "Qui said the holonet is already pestering you?"

He set his cup down. "Oh. Yes." A deep inhalation. "There was a journalist yesterday – sent by the Chancellor for the express purpose of rendering the Order more palatable to the madding crowd. He was thoroughly obnoxious."

Tahl's brows rose. "Why do I have the bad feeling you were obnoxious right back at him?"

The young Jedi tucked his chin down, fighting back a smile. "He _said_ he was open to suggestions – so I made one or two." Dark amusement flitted in the Force.

But Tahl did not share his delight in the recollection. "Obi-Wan!"

Startled, he looked up, eyes widening in sudden pain at the reprimand. Tahl's free hand reached for him, and he caught it in mid-air.

"That was ill-done, Padawan."

"I-" But all protest died on his lips. Tahl's censure closed like a vise about his chest. "I –" He looked away, though she could see nothing of the hot flush creeping up his neck and ears.

She leaned forward, hand wrenching free of his grasp and seeking his face. Her fingers coursed softly over one cheek, his chin. "If you cannot stand firm in the face of minor provocation, how can you resist the lure of Darkness? Our path does not admit of error; there is no room for _personal feelings._ It doesn't matter what he said to you, or about the Order – you have _no_ excuse for indulging yourself."

"He was _asinine_, master."

"Even worse; you picked an inferior being to torment. I am sorely ashamed on your behalf." She collapsed backward against the pillows, exhausted, and waited for him to find his voice again.

It took some time.

Eventually he shifted, bowing his head. "I'm sorry," he offered, quietly. "It won't happen again."

"I know." She relented a little, sighing.

After another long silence, Obi-Wan tentatively broached a new topic. "Have you ever inquired into your birth family, master? Your planet of origin?"

"Once. But I didn't pursue it further. It is simply a piece of information – something to know."

He scowled. "What about my master?"

"Oh, Qui-Gon – well, he has spent quite a bit of time on his homeworld, over the years. There is a place there, called the River of Light. Ask him to tell you about it, someday when you need help falling asleep. But Qui's an eccentric, in case you hadn't noticed. He forms the oddest _attachments."_

Obi-Wan glanced up, the word like a stinging gnat. But she merely smiled wanly, lost in some private memory. "In the end, Padawan, it doesn't matter… but perhaps there is growth to be found in seeking out the knowledge. Why do you ask?"

He studied the floor, twisting his fingers together between his knees. "Are your parents – your birth parents – are they still alive? Do you know?"

Tahl frowned. It was a strange question, certainly – but she did not remark upon his mood. "No, thankfully. I am glad, for it is difficult for many beings to accept the loss of their offspring, however distant their connection. Many people in the galaxy do not understand death, Obi-Wan… it would be difficult for them to hear that I have passed into the Force. As it is, they are spared the pain. I was their only child, after all."

He rubbed at the back of his neck, pensive.

"You had better be on your way," she gently chided him. "Qui will be waiting."

* * *

Qui-Gon docked the air-car at 400 Republica's 214th story private landing pad.

"Sangu will wish to review the initial testimony," he addressed his Padawan as they exited the vehicle, pulling cloaks close against the chill wind that buffeted the soaring edifice's mirrored walls. Their inverse images shimmered forward to meet them as they approached the reflective double door entrance. "Remember your centering techniques; it would be foolish to underestimate the power of memory and association. Our instinctual responses to past or present trauma cannot be changed- it is our inward focus that enables us to rise above and control them."

"Yes, master." Obi-Wan lifted his brows slightly. "It is all clear now... I did not fully comprehend your advice the first nine times you gave it."

The tall man pursed his lips, accepting the humorous rebuke for his nagging. "You _are_ a slow learner."

The Padawan inclined his head respectfully. "It is my place to conform my understanding to the measure and scope of my master's." He folded his hands neatly into opposite sleeves and lowered his eyes, the perfect image of submission.

Qui-Gon waved open the doors, issuing them into a broad, ornately ornamented hallway. Chandeliers cast limpid pools of radiance upon the synth-plush carpeting. "Just how _many_ times do you think you could run the Temple perimeter without collapsing, Obi-Wan?" he inquired casually as they proceeded down the corridor, footfalls hushed to a murmur by the thick floor coverings.

Face composed in perfect deadpan solemnity, Obi-Wan halted before the assigned suite. "Without your constant litany of support and counsel, master? Not even once, surely." Smug amusement whiplashed in the Force, daring further provocation.

"I am tempted to seek empirical verification so soon as we return," the older man suggested.

His apprentice's ironic gaze slid sideways briefly. "I'll be sure to keep my inward focus centered, then."

Qui-Gon gave a stern nod. "I am glad you were listening. It only took ten repetitions this time – you are improving , my Padawan."

The door opened to admit them into Zuul Sangu's lavish suite. Abandoning the verbal sparring match, they turned instead to unpleasant duty and difficult recollection.

* * *

Qui Gon knelt just outside the broad doors, tranquil in his meditation and seemingly oblivious to the sporadic procession of service droids and staff that trickled past his watchful post, each one stopping to stare in bewilderment at the Jedi master stationed like some primitive idolater's statue in its private grotto, motionless and _exotic_ enough to provide striking contrast to the modern opulence of the residential tower.

Minutes dragged into hours, and he did not relax his vigilant introspection – that is, not until a demure waiter automaton appeared at the far end of the passage pushing a hover trolley laden with tea and caff.

"May I offer you refreshment, sir?" it asked, unfazed by his unusual posture or his Jedi garb. "Compliments of the management."

Stretching, he stood and accepted a cup of tea, smiling as the cart was pushed past him into the barrister's suite. Besides caffeine-laden beverages, the trolley contained only sweetbread and other sugar-based delicacies. Apparently the litigator suffered from an acute sweet-tooth; the siren call of the pastry tray and dark-brewed stimulants a temptation too compelling to be resisted, especially in the afternoon hours.

The Jedi master sent an express warning against over-indulgence to his apprentice, across their bond- a Force borne reminder to decline such hospitality. He was initially rebuffed by tight mental shielding, and then reluctantly answered with a vague sense of queasiness that had nothing to do with food.

So. The evidence review process thus far had not been _easy._ Ruefully, the tall man sipped at his tea and bowed to the empty-handed servitor as it exited the lawyer's chambers. The droid hesitated, then turned to address him nervously.

"Excuse me, sir… but the young gentleman inside bade me inform you with all due respect that he intends to enjoy two triple-shot Rodianos and a half dozen Chandrilan eclairs, without or without your esteemed permission."

"Thank you." The Jedi master snorted softly to himself as the robot disappeared into the nearest lift tube, allowing the teasing rejoinder to bring a tiny smile to his eyes. _Brat._ _That will cost you extra laps._

Still faintly amused, he finished his tea and resumed his meditation.

* * *

It was many hours later that Obi-Wan re-emerged from the lawyer's interim offices.

"I'm famished," he grunted, falling into step beside Qui-Gon as they headed back for the landing pad. "And no, I did not glut myself on sweets and caff, master. Thank you for your concern; without your guidance I would assuredly be an incomparably jittery acolyte of darkness. "

The Jedi master raised a brow but did not comment on the obvious unspoken root of the sarcasm. It had been a trying afternoon; one did not even require the Force to sense his apprentice's disturbed state of mind. The young man stalked down the corridor, tight lipped, a faint line between his brows.

"We'll spend the evening meditating in our quarters," the tall man decided. "Solitude will be welcome, I think."

Obi-Wan nodded curtly, frown deepening.

"Here." Qui-Gon tossed him the air-car's ignition coder. "You pilot us home."

Visibly relieved not to be subjected to his mentor's reckless approach to the city's skylane traffic, the Padawan vaulted over their vehicle's side and engaged the repulsors. Qui-Gon settled into the passenger side, folding his long legs up in the relatively small space. They drifted carefully away from the towering building and edged toward a free-fly lane in the next open bloc.

After a short hesitance, Obi-Wan relaxed his guard a trifle, permitting his shuttered frustration to spill into words. "He insisted on reviewing each and every detail of the initial mission report several times over – not to mention the records _she_ kept, _and_ the healers' notes afterward." He jerked the yoke more fiercely than necessary, inserting them into the flow of traffic at an abrupt angle, cutting off several other pilots with elegant asperity.

"Padawan."

"I'm sorry, master." The young Jedi flew with his eyes closed for several long minutes, the Force gradually smoothing away the rough edges on his temper.

"I don't know which is worse: being dissected by Zan Arbor or the Republic court prosecutor," he observed dryly, as they whizzed into the next district and took a long curve around the Tarkall Loop, the steady stream of aircars humming like a tiska gnat swarm about them. "Sangu is far less efficient – but then, _he_ didn't employ electro- binders and drugs. On the other hand, Zan Arbor made more stimulating conversation. It's a toss-up which of them is preferable as tormentor."

Qui-Gon chuckled softly, flowing along with this bitter current of jest – but he also risked a stealthy mental probe, feeling the tiny stress fractures already in place. As he had suspected, the exhumation of unpleasant memory was not to be undertaken lightly. Obi-Wan could deflect and camouflage an impressive degree of inner turmoil with sharp words and twisted humor, but he had his limits.

And Tahl had not recovered from her similar ordeal at the evil scientist's hands; that brutal fact was an unhealed bruise lingering beneath the Padawan's brave exterior. To recount his own torture was to relive in memory the slow murder of an honorable woman… one still eking out her last days before their helpless eyes. Yes. They should shun the refectory and the more public areas of the Temple this evening; this trial was far more than an onerous civic duty, for both of them. "Obi-Wan," he began, and then stopped, head suddenly craning over his right shoulder.

The Padawan tensed, eyes narrowing as he too caught the flutter of malice in the Force.

"Slow down and drop to the next tier," Qui-Gon ordered.

"It's illegal here," Obi-Wan warned him, obeying nonethless as the Jedi master shot him a thunderous look.

They promptly dropped into the lower air-lane, causing a ruckus as several other pilots swerved to avoid a collision. A freighter-tug lurched to one side, the driver waving several indignant fists at the smaller vehicle as it swept past.

"He's still following us," Qui-Gon observed a moment later.

Brows rising, Obi-Wan glanced behind them. "He's not the only one." The flashing lights of a droid traffic-patrol officer commanded them to pull out of the flow-lane and face arrest. "Do I comply or are we doing this your way, master?"

"_Is_ there another way, my young apprentice? …That is what I thought. Now pull over."

Their pursuer had no option but to whiz past them with the other speeding pods and cloud-taxis, carried along in the bustling river of light craft heading into the next sub-district. The Temple aircar slowed to a halt in the designated hover-zone while the robotic police officer approached at a cautious pace, pulling into place behind them in mid-air.

"Proceed to the docking pad directly below us," a warbling electronic voice ordered over its amplifier.

Obi-Wan raised a hand in acknowledgement and sank the small craft downward, aiming for a projecting ledge of duracrete several stories below. "Our friend saw where we left traffic; he'll simply loop back around and wait for us."

"Exactly," Qui-Gon agreed. "I want to have a look at him. Keep the police officer talking. Stall for time."

"It's a _droid,_ master – I can hardly-" The protest was cut off in mid-sentence as the Jedi master again fixed his student with a sharp look. "Yes, master."

They steeled upon the ledge with a shush of pressure stabilizers. The droid pulled its hoverbike up beside them and dismounted, swaggering over to the aircar driver's side with a jaunty officiousness. "Identification," it demanded, thrusting two blunt digits in the Padawan's direction.

Obi-Wan handed over his ID chit, aware that Qui-Gon's attention had unfurled into the surrounding maze of buildings and hover platforms, barges and flitting traffic.

"Jedi," the police officer harrumphed, small optic plates flashing with the cybernetic equivalent of condescension. "You are aware, young sir, that the traffic regulatory statutes do apply to you as equally as any other citizen of this planet?"

"Except in emergency situations," Obi-Wan qualified.

"That is correct," the droid replied, slotting the chit into a datapad and tapping at the screen. "Your vehicle transponder did not indicate emergency status."

"Oh." The young Jedi considered his strategic options. "Is it against regulations to pursue emergency action without properly coding the transponder?"

Of course the thing had the codebook automatically programmed into its data-banks. "Except in cases of clandestine operation."

Qui-Gon shifted, his Force presence tensing as the mysterious threat drew near again. Obi-Wan focused on keeping the droid busy. "But in a clandestine operation, the independent law enforcement agents are obligated not to communicate their intentions and activities to anyone outside their own chain of command, including the local traffic regulatory board."

The police officer mulled it, optic plates flickering. "Correct."

"So.." the young Jedi drew the syllable out with dramatic flair. "If we were engaged in clandestine action at the time of my traffic violation, there would be no transponder signal designating the emergency status of our mission, but our irregular flight patterns would still come under the exception clause."

"Correct," the police officer answered. "Are you presently engaged in a clandestine operation?"

"If I am, I cannot tell you – per regulations," Obi-Wan regretfully sighed.

This had the things' processor working double time. "Logically, this only implies that there is a possibility that your illegal lane change falls under the exception clause."

"True," the Padawan agreed, "But you can only issue a citation for _established_ violations of law. Since there is a possibility that I am on a clandestine mission but unable to tell you, we can't establish with certainty that I did break the law."

The droid burbled something in its strange internal dialogue – a series of clicks and blurbles eerily similar to humanoid imprecation – and handed the ID chit back to its owner. "I'm letting you off with a warning," it decided, preserving its dignity in the face of this logical impasse. "Lane changes are to be executed only in specified free-transit areas between district hubs and where designated by a holo-buoy. Pan-municipal Statute 675.4b."

Qui-Gon's attention snapped up and to the left; he had located their pursuer.

"Thank you," Obi-Wan nodded to the departing police droid. "I'll remember that." He waited for the befuddled representative of the law to merge its hoverbike back into the torrent of Coruscanti traffic before adding, "… Now what, master?"

"We lay a trap, Obi-Wan. Head back to the Tarkall Loop shopping center. Our zealous friend will follow us, I have no doubt."

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" They rose back into the frenetic sky, and doubled back into a free-fly lane several levels overhead, simultaneously violating four separate traffic regulations without an ounce of contrition.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Obi-Wan dropped out of the free-flow lane and into the docking queue for the bustling Tarkall Loop pedestrian mall, acutely aware that his every action was mimicked by an attentive shadow.

"Which vehicle is he in?" the Padawan inquired, keeping his gaze forward at the gaping garage mouth, where the sluggish line of vehicles was slowly swallowed by echoing shadow.

"Decommissioned taxi, five cars back," Qui-Gon levelly replied. "I would prefer an encounter on foot. We'll visit the Mall and draw him off."

"He's after me," Obi-Wan observe, bluntly. It was writ large across the Force; the tall man did not bother to deny it. And since this was obviously the case… "I'll go ahead. But should we not avoid a crowded area if we anticipate hostilities?"

"I do not think he would be fool enough to approach us in a dark alley, Padawan." The Jedi master's hand strayed grimly to his saber hilt. "He will count on numbers to shield his presence and provide cover."

They docked the small craft in a numbered space and leapt over the sides, scanning this level for their pursuer. But he had been shunted onto the next floor.

"Fine," Obi-Wan decided. "I've a mind to try the Blitzkriegger."

Qui-Gon did not fall for the trap; he registered no appalled reaction to his apprentice's stated desire to give custom to the infamously debauched bar and club. "As you wish."

Disappointed, the young Jedi strode away down the aisle of docked vehicles, heading for a pedestrian swift-walk. He slipped onto the moving surface among a passel of shoppers and eager customers of the Mall's dining and entertainment venues, simple brown cloak a striking contract to the gaudy finery and fashionably bizarre accoutrements of Coruscant's upper middle classes. Qui-Gon watched him disappear into the main arcade and then set off in careful pursuit, senses attuned to the hunter he felt closing in from the upper story.

* * *

The Blitzkriegger club was situated at the very pinnacle of the multi-decked mall. Obi-Wan approached the main doors at a confident swagger, passing the first three bouncers without provoking any comment. The fourth and last guardian of the gates slouched insouciantly against the inner entrance, idly sucking on a smokestick.

"You got ID?" the burly Klatooinian demanded.

The young Jedi folded aside his cloak to reveal the 'saber's hilt; the security man shrugged, grinding out the butt of his 'stick on the reflective door behind him. "No arms on the floor when you're done, got it?" he growled.

The Padawan swept past with an ironic half-bow, wincing a bit as his senses were abruptly bombarded with the club's pulsing cacophony of light and sound. Uuntz music blasted out of overhead amplifiers, setting his very teeth to vibrating in his head. Striating lights spilled in a giddying whirl over the flashing grid of a wide dance floor. Inebriated sentients of a dozen species writhed and twined among the colored squares, their silhouettes grotesquely cast upon the wall by the strobing flares of inset spot-lights. A thick haze of mingled bacci and _hazz_ smoke captured the sweeping beams, refracting them into myriad colors and shapes amid coiled translucent veils.

_Focus._ The throbbing rhythms of abandon and salacity drummed against his awareness, the various individual minds in the crowd melding into an indifferent mass of instinct and impulse, a leviathan wrought of base hunger and over-stimulation. Within the hypnotic morass, however, there _was _a more distinct presence, one not given over to the seductive droning of the music and the comfortable blur of alcohol.

One focused on him as surely as he was upon it. And near the rear entrance, a solid psychic rock amidst tossing seas, Qui-Gon Jinn: cloaked and hooded but bright as a lighthouse beam in the Force.

Briefly, Obi-Wan considered heading straight for the upper tier bar, with the intention of ordering a Bomb-Bay Sapphire or similarly flamboyant mixed drink, something outrageous enough to riffle the Jedi master's calm. But before he could act on the mischievous notion, another stratagem presented itself to his imagination. He threaded his way among the thrusting and wriggling mass of dancers, dodging a few unwanted attempts at an invasion of his personal space, and made a steady line for the 'freshers, the three worn pressure panels adorned with the universal symbols for male, female, and androgyne-binary. He loitered outside the right-hand door just long enough to be sure his location had been marked by both keen observers before waving the panel open and slipping into the sterile confines.

Inside, the pounding of the amplified music was dulled to a persistent throb similar to migraine headache; only a handful of patrons were currently using the facilities. Following Core-world custom, he did not greet or make eye contact with any of the other occupants as he sidled up to the row of multi-species urinals set in the far wall, selecting one at the proper height and angle for humanoids. He was fairly certain the insectoid fellow on his left was technically not _male –_ more like midway in a trans-gender developmental phase - but it would be rude to draw attention to the gaffe. Besides, he could now clearly sense the mysterious and hostile stranger outside the door, on the verge of entering and sorely tempted by the prospect of catching a Jedi in such a _vulnerable _position.

Sinking a little deeper into the Force, allowing its ethereal radiance to saturate him, slow the world down around him, the young Jedi made a great show of unfastening the closure on his trousers, his fingers conveniently inches from his 'saber hilt, every muscle relaxed into deadly readiness.

The hunter entered, footfalls slapping against the tile. The insectoid finished his business and departed, antennae quivering. Somebody else activated the hand-sanitizer unit, then shuffled out. The remaining humanoid banged into a private stall –

-and the Force exploded with warning. Obi-Wan ducked low, rolling backward on his good shoulder and flicking his weapon into blazing life. Tiny projectiles – darts? needles? – clattered against the tiled wall. The 'saber hummed in a tight circle, warding off another volley of thin, whistling missiles.

His assailant was not much larger than Master Yoda – a diminutive figure swathed in a tight-fitting face mask and cloak, a pair of tendon knotted and tattooed hands wielding nothing but a short tube-like implement. Out of this strange device flew another barrage of near-invisible darts, a swarm of stinging gnats seeking the Padawan's flesh. His blade carved blue fury in the 'cycled air, wild reflected light dancing in mirrors and polished countertops. The howl of the weapon drowned out the screams of the men cowering in the stalls and the pulsing beat of the music outside.

The last volley expended, the tiny assassin rolled away and fled, skidding out the door with impressive agility and speed. Obi-Wan snorted, jauntily flourishing his 'saber one last time before deactivating it. Qui-Gon was _right outside _ the entrance; their inept stalker didn't stand a chance. He took a moment to straighten his britches and pass his hands under the sterilizer light before strolling into the corridor again.

"Master!" There was no other person to be seen. "Where is he?"

Qui-Gon laid a hand on his shoulder. "Relax. I let him go."

The young Jedi stared, disbelief tempered by long experience. "Some bodyguard you prove to be. You're hardly worth your salary."

The tall man raised a brow and led the way back into the club's pandemonium. They passed unnoticed through the grinding and gyrating dance mob, and past the bar. The cool evening air outside was sweet relief.

"I placed a tracker on him as he hurried past," the Jedi master explained. "Best to find the hive rather than destroy a single scout."

Beside him, striding along beneath the covered arcade outside the Mall's expensive boutiques and galleries, Obi-Wan nodded in understanding. "He must be working for someone."

"Yes, and that person is a far greater threat than one lackey. We shall be patient, Obi-Wan, and see where he leads us."

"Yes, master.. and while we are here…"

The tall man quirked a knowing smile. "A small detour to indulge your insatiable appetite? Some things never change." Then, "Just a moment."

They halted outside the display windows of Galaktos Haute Couture. Qui-Gon frowned, delicately plucking a razor-fine needle from the thick folds of his apprentice's cloak hood. "It would seem your defensive technique still leaves room for improvement. This got past your guard."

"My shoulder… I'm still slow on that side." Obi-Wan squinted at the tiny missile, certitude sinking in his gut. "Toxic," he concluded.

The older man affirmed this with a grim nod, then cautiously placed the deadly object in a belt pouch. "Another lead – and let us be grateful this did not find its mark."

Sobered, they continued toward the alluring scents and sounds of the dining courts.

"By the way," Qui-Gon added with a tiny smirk, "This does not absolve you of all penance: I think you still owe me a few laps around the Temple perimeter when we return."

"…Yes, master."

* * *

Obi-Wan dragged himself over the threshold late that evening.

Qui-Gon peered into his apprentice's face, probing gently with the Force. "That will do; I don't sense any more impertinence on the horizon, do you?"

The exhausted Padawan managed not to roll his eyes. "No, master."

One of the older man's brows twitched upward. "Good. Why don't you turn in for the night; I'll return shortly."

Obi-Wan bowed, watching the Jedi master's cloak hem ripple as he crossed back into the outside corridor, leaving his Padawan alone in their shared quarters. _Shortly_ meant _by morning; _they both knew he was on his way to Tahl, and then the Archives, the twin foci of his present elliptical obsession.

The young Jedi tossed his cloak atop the common room's low table and slouched into the kitchen alcove, only to decide that tea was not, after all, what he wanted. Mouth twisting in chagrin, he returned to the larger room and briefly pondered whether he might find better peace of mind on the balcony, where Coruscant's luminous grid stretched below like a vast cobweb, the sticky detritus of three trillion life forms spun across the planet's surface, corner to corner, horizon to horizon.

A sudden pressure clamped about his chest, and he breathed it away, the gentle buffeting of an unwanted vision against his awareness turned back upon the way without admittance. He did not wish to relive those days in Zan Arbor's clutches again… nor yet lose himself meditating upon the vast kaleidoscopic procession of past and future, the slow-eroding river of time. Too weary in mind to study, too weary in body to do more than stand numbly gazing at his blurred reflection in the balcony doors, he was simply empty, afloat on the last dregs of adrenaline and annoyance trickling in his veins.

Perhaps Qui-Gon was right. He should sleep.

He was showered, clad in a pair of ratty sleep-pants, and at the point of falling onto his low cot when the holo-terminal in the common room chimed. Qui-Gon or anyone else in Temple would have simply used the handheld 'link system; this transmission must be coming in from off-world. He knew his duty. Sparing his sleep mat a last rueful glance, he strode back into the darkened chamber, flicking on the lights to half power with one hand and then blearily activating the projection plate atop its spindly stand. As an afterthought, he summoned his cloak from across the room and hastily threw it over his shoulders and bare chest.

The flickering figure in the hologram apparently caught the tail end of this action, for her eyes widened with manifest appreciation at the spectacle.

His heart leapt against his ribs, trying to cross the countless parsecs in a single bound. "Siri."

Warily, the transparent blue image met his gaze. "I'm sorry to disturb you – I have no idea what time it is there. But this is the most convenient opportunity to make contact. Master Gallia is making arrangements for our transport to the Outer Rim, and as soon as she returns we must be on our way."

He nodded. Message received: Adi was not present. "It's no trouble," he replied. "Master Jinn is out upon an errand. Is there a message I am to convey to him?"

Siri's perfectly contained expression melted into one of purest relief. They were alone – and a half-galaxy apart. "I heard the news… about the trial," she said, sitting down before the camera. One transparent hand came up to shove her Padawan braid behind one ear. "Are you all right?"

He lifted the projector off its narrow pedestal and set it upon the table, hunkering down before it, a lonely traveler sheltering a tiny flame from the elements. The miniature sapphire-blue Siri watched him intently.

"No," he confessed, reaching through the Force… reaching… if only they could _touch,_ even for a moment – the Force yielded, contracted, parted and … yet…

She frowned, their minds mutually stretching across incalculable distance, fingers seeming to vainly brush against each other as they strained to bridge the abyss. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I wish I were there."

He wished it too. But they had agreed not to wish, not to pine or yearn, only to acknowledge what _was._ And this sweet possibility _was not._ "It can't be changed." He drank in the sight of her, the static-ridden effigy of the incomparable original, and found it sadly lacking. "How are you, Siri?"

A hesitance, and then a shy smile. "I'm better. Truly. Master Adi has taught me many things while we have been here on retreat… meditative techniques. I wish I could show you, _ben'ke._ Maybe you could ask Master Jinn if-"

"No, Siri. He's busy. He has his own burdens, and I am old enough to carry my own."

She cocked an exasperated brow at him. "Your head is full of bantha chisszk, Kenobi."

Oh. So it was going to be like that, was it? He gave a tiny snort of disdain. "That's because you've driven every thought from my mind – but that of you."

Her perfect lips quirked upward at the corners, combatively. "You didn't have many to start with. But I would give you something _to think about_ if I were there."

Force help him, she already was. He took a deep centering breath, exerting _control._ Focus, focus. On something else. "Where are you headed?" he asked. "Where in the Outer Rim?"

She hesitated. "I'm not sure. We're to help the Service Corps – there's a situation on the borders of Hutt space – a long-term humanitarian project. I don't know the details, I'm sorry."

A wistful silence filled the measureless gap between them.

"How is your shoulder?"

He shrugged. "It's perfectly fine, although Ben-To still insists on fussing."

Siri leaned back in her chair, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Let me see."

His jaw dropped, but she merely regarded him blandly, delicate brows rising in mute challenge, one shapely leg now crossed over the opposite knee as she gently rocked back and forth in what must be the pilot's seat inside a Republic shuttle.

Well, then. The cloak came off.

"Hmmm." Siri's expertise was limited, but she made a great show of critical diagnostic interest. "I can't really tell via hologram. Damn." Her head slewed round, craning over one shoulder, then returned to the holocam with a somewhat guilty abruptness. "I'm sorry – I need to go."

He nodded in understanding, the grin threatening to tug at his lips fading away to nothingness as they mournfully parted ways, a curt bow on either end and a melancholy fizzle of blue light severing the tenuous connection.

In an instant she was light-years away again, and the room as hollow as the aching space beneath his diaphragm. He rose to his feet, and trudged back to his sleeping room, and curled upon the hard mattress, determined to acknowledge what _was_ without yearning or regret.

When the Force finally lulled him to sleep, he dreamt of falling from a great height amid screaming lights and sirens, and a fluttering cascade of white blossoms.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"Beautiful," Cin Drallig murmured, clapping his hands together once to signal the end of the exercise. "We'll have you performing both katas with weapons before long… you are a natural-born practitioner of the form."

"It makes a wonderful theoretical study," Obi-Wan cautiously agreed. "And I have begun studying Master Seva's commentary – he suggests that the advanced kata be used as meditative anchors. I should like to achieve such a level of fluency… in order to immerse myself in his teachings, of course."

The weapons-master inclined his head. "It has been a pleasure. So long as you are at leisure to pursue such training, I am happy to continue with you."

The Padawan bowed deeply. "I am honored, master."

"You will excuse me," the senior Jedi replied, standing and ushering his young companion into the adjacent corridor. "I have agreed to a sparring match with some of the Councilors this morning – it would be best to warm up before I face their wrath." A wink followed this pronouncement.

Obi-Wan risked a small smile of amusement, unsure whether this confidence was one appropriately made to a senior Padawan, but reluctant to allow the moment of humor to pass unacknowledged. He bowed a second time as the swords-master disappeared into one of the smaller salles, then started as the far end of the corridor veritably shimmered with Mace Windu's dominating Force presence.

The Korun master was accompanied by Dooku and Ki Adi Mundi, the threesome obviously intended as partners in Master Drallig's morning competition.

Yet another bow was requisite; and to his dismay, the triumvirate of Temple authority did not merely nod and continue on their way, but chose rather to approach him in affable spirits, effectively blocking his escape.

"Padawan Kenobi," Master Windu boomed, in something approaching a good mood. Obi-Wan wondered if the happy anticipation of all-out melee affected the intimidating Jedi master in much the same way it did himself – an odd notion, but not an implausible one. "What brings you down to Cin's domain so early?"

"Not practicing your dueling techniques in the 'freshers, I hope?" Ki Adi Mundi jested, his pale blue eyes twinkling with contained mirth.

Open mouthed, Obi-Wan covered his confusion with yet another bow.

"It was an amusing anecdote," the Cerean Jedi continued. "I must thank Master Jinn for sharing it."

Surely he must be the color of a Antaran beet; the Padawan thrust hands into opposite sleeves and hoped his manifest dismay would inspire them to take mercy on him. Mace Windu actually patted him on the shoulder as the three elder men strode past into the practice room he had just vacated.

On impulse, he turned. "Master Windu?"

The Korun paused in the doorway. "Yes?"

Obi-Wan swallowed, gathering his courage. But the Force had provided opportunity – he must not fail to act on its prompting. "May I have a word with you please?"

The dark man stepped nearer, politely inclining his head. "What does this concern, Padawan?"

"Regarding the holonet reporter who came to the Temple – the one assigned to the Chancellor's public relations campaign… " He almost lost his nerve when Master Windu's eyes narrowed in dark anticipation, but a Jedi _finished _what he started. It was too late to back out now. "I – I wish to request a disciplinary hearing. For myself."

He had the dubious honor of actually catching the revered Korun master off-balance. "You _what_?" Then, recovering his habitual severe composure – only a faint trace of bemusement running beneath his grave exterior - "Very well. I think we can accommodate you." He turned into the salle and hailed the other two Jedi, who returned to the corridor with brows raised in open curiosity.

Obi-Wan's eyes shifted from one to the other in surprise.

"Let's get this over with," Mace Windu declared. "We only need three for a hearing. Master Dooku can represent your master in absentia; you are in his teaching line."

The Padawan blinked. This was not precisely what he had imagined, but before he could even mentally formulate a proper objection, he was being shepherded into the small classroom on the right, where the three Council members took seats upon the tiered benches, indicating that he should stand before them in the room's center.

"All right, Padawan, what's this all about?"

One hand closing about his 'saber's hilt, Obi-Wan steadied himself in the Force and plunged into his confession, detailing his misdemeanors in a rapid and flatly objective recital. "I am sorry, masters – my conduct is inexcusable and I submit myself to your correction."

He kept his gaze down, noting the irregular grain of the polished boards beneath his feet, but he could still feel the swift exchange of guarded looks – and even _amusement- _rippling in the universal energy field. If the three Jedi masters bothered to confer upon their sentence, they did so silently, within the sheltered cloister of the Force.

Mace sighed deeply, his emotions, if any, utterly inscrutable as ever. "So you failed to cooperate, thus failing the commission I assigned you."

"Yes, master." The Korun's _annoyance_ leaked beneath his shields, making the young Jedi squirm inwardly.

"And you behaved in a manner which ill reflects upon the Order and may result in the propagation of further misinformation," Ki Adi Mundi added, though not unkindly. "You seem to have forgotten that this interview had far broader ramifications than those encompassed by your personal perspective."

"Yes, master… I have since reflected upon this."

Mace's dark gaze slid sideways to Dooku. "Are we in unanimous agreement, then?'

Obi-Wan had little hope of garnering sympathy from the silver-haired master, who took every opportunity available to humiliate and confound him. He braced himself for a caustic rebuke.

But as always, Dooku seemed intent on defying all expectations. He raised one eyebrow, delicately. "I do not see what harm there is in discouraging an upstart politician's minion from pursuing a manipulative scheme. Indeed, Padawan Kenobi seems to have handled the situation quite well."

This was clearly not as much a shock to the elder Jedi as it was to the subject of the pronouncement; Obi-Wan watched in stunned silence as both Master Windu and Master Mundi shot aggravated glances at their elegant colleague. The Sentinel merely met their gaze unperturbed, returning his imperious regard to the Padawan after an awkward stretch of seconds.

"If we cater to the vile popular media, then we are devoted not to the ideal of democracy but its most pestilent symptom of decay. It is good that the younger members of the Order are still able to distinguish between _service _ and _sycophancy."_

Obi-Wan stared, only half believing that the senior master had opted to play advocate and champion to his cause, and only half-agreeing with the man himself. Mace Windu snorted in vexation and folded his arms across his chest. "Well, Padawan," he rumbled. "It seems the tribunal cannot reach a conclusive verdict at this time… I will say that your conduct will, ah… doubtless create further headaches for the Council in future."

The admonitory growl in his voice seemed – momentarily- to contain a thrumming overtone like a barely restrained chuckle, but that simply could _not_ be the case. Obi-Wan dipped his head. "I am truly sorry, master."

The Cerean Jedi spoke next. "Perhaps you should refer this matter directly to your own master. I am sure his counsel will be straightforward and salutary."

The Padawan nodded again, dismayed but accepting the inevitable. Qui-Gon _would _have to be told eventually. There was no question of prolonged secrecy, much less deception.

"And now," Mace finished, rising to his feet in one graceful motion. " I think our sparring session has been deferred long enough. Padawan: may the Force be with you."

Thus abruptly dismissed, Obi-Wan bowed and fled the scene, withdrawing with as much dignity as he could manage – and not daring to look back, even though he could feel an inexplicable spark of wry amusement from Master Windu, and Dooku's keenly assessing gaze resting on him all the way to the end of the main corridor.

* * *

"Ah… Qui-Gon. Imagine seeing you here." Dooku emphasized the latter syllable with a touch of derisive irony. He had never counted his former Padawan much of a _scholar._

The tall man ignored the subtle jibe. "Knowledge is one of the three pillars," he reminded his past mentor. "And compassion the foundation of them all."

But the silver haired Sentinel turned the clumsy counter-strike away with the ease of a Makashi reverse parry. "Ah…. of course: the mind in subjection to the heart. You have changed so very little, Qui-Gon. Though I must compliment you upon your apprentice's development. He is growing into quite the promising young man."

They strolled up the Archives' main aisle, side by side, the gauntlet of Lost Ones staring at them as they passed. "He is progressing. Though he still has much to learn." Qui-Gon would by no means countenance the older master's calculating desire to push his Padawan toward premature Knighthood – and conscription into the ranks of the Sentinels.

"Hm." They passed into the main concourse. "Like student, like teacher," Dooku idly observed, thin smile like a shiv's edge.

It took great effort not to fall for the lure; Qui-Gon deftly changed topics. "You are headed off-planet, master?"

It was gratifying to see that his still-honed ability to read the older man's signature was a source of irritation. Dooku might be the best-shielded Shadow in the Temple, but he was not _opaque_ to his own former apprentice. Once upon time they had been bonded by more than tradition and will; even in the most sterile and distant of teaching relationships, a certain forced intimacy of mind prevailed, if only for ruthlessly pragmatic reasons.

"We have received news that Sifo-Dyas has been sighted near Onderon… a mere red herring, to be sure, but we shall make a show of playing his game," Dooku replied, at length. "He is a skilled dejarik player, but not, ah – _creative."_

The remark held the faint echo of a familiar jest. Qui-Gon's own rogue methods of securing victory at strategic games had once been a sore topic of dispute and discipline. Now, the memory was but a stale aftertaste for both of them.

"Then may the Force be with you."

The elegant Sentinel's mouth thinned into a tight smile, and he bowed graciously, dismissing his companion and accepting the blessing with cool condescension. His black cloak frolicked at his heels as he swept away down the soaring hall, the very sun- rays parting to allow him passage.

* * *

"Fascinating," Agrion Pertha murmured, turning the toxin-saturated spine between two gnarled fingers. "Most certainly a venemous barb from a mature specimen – most likely _micohastae… _you see these parallel ridges near the base? That's what gives it away. Rugosan flora all have that vestigial organelle. Stars, wherever did you find this?"

Qui-Gon Jinn watched the botanist squint at the deadly projectile through an optic lens. "An assassin shot it at my Padawan – he employed a dart-gun, breath-propelled. Primitive enough to pass any weapons scanner with ease."

"Intelligent barve, then," the aged Togruta harrumphed. "But a spoiler of nature's treasures. Pulling out the spines kills the fungal colony – it grieves me to hear of anyone decimating the population of an already nearly extinct species, especially for violent purposes."

The tall man leaned over the other Jedi's shoulder. "And you are certain this hails from Rugosa?"

"Oh yes, yes… did I neglect to tell you? I've just imported six juvenile specimens into the smaller arboretum for research! It was a gift of the Force. I _must_ show them to you sometime. They aren't nearly as toxic as this dart, yet – but wonderful nonetheless. Your Padawan helped me unpack them from the cargo container." Master Pertha's eyes glazed with an idyllic light, before a troubling afterthought occurred to him. "Your Padawan _is_ hearty and hale, I hope? This one needle would be sufficient to send a bantha into instant cardiac arrest."

"Obi-Wan is fine – he is quite capable in self-defense."

"I'm glad to hear it," the elderly Togruta snorted. "Every time an unfortunate accident involving such a rare species is brought to public light, the Senate wants to restrict research and import parameters even further. Soon enough I'll be relying on the black market simply to supply teaching materials."

"That would be a lamentable state of affairs," Qui-Gon dryly agreed, wondering exactly how the avid botanist had acquired the illegal juvenile _micohastae_ presently resident in the teaching arboretum. But he just as quickly opted to turn a blind eye to his colleague's maverick activities. "Let me be clear: this needle could not be obtained easily outside of Rugosa? Are there known sources here in the Core?"

But here Master Pertha's extensive knowledge petered out. "The underworld is not my area of expertise," he sighed. "However – Qui-Gon – if you _do _find a local dealer, I should be curious to know his name and going rates."

* * *

"If you spent any more time here, young one, Madame Nu will surely ask you to accept a position as her personal assistant."

"Force forbid," Obi-Wan muttered, turning his head over one shoulder and briefly glancing up at his mentor before returning his attention to the small holoplate inset in the Archives data terminal desktop.

Qui-Gon perched upon the corner, moving one of the three hefty stacks of holo-volumes to the side. "Perhaps I should rethink my decision to excuse you from formal classes during this trial – I see you are determined to seek solace in abstraction whether or not you have leisure time."

"Look at this, master."

There was tension latent in the Padawan's voice; Qui-Gon peered at the flickering holo-net feed, which was projecting a live-streamed version of a popular news and talk show. "Broadening your horizons, Obi-Wan? Has your recent interview with the press gone to your head?"

A slightly pained silence, but then the holo program shifted to a new and intriguing personality, riveting both their attentions. The newest celebrity featured by the roving cam-droid was a fleshy Nemoidian garbed in sumptuous robes and a grotesquely sculptured hat, the traditional designation of a barrister in that fiercely hierarchical society.

"Bune Dauggl. Defense attorney to Jenna Zan Arbor," Obi-Wan said, fixing the translucent image with an intense scowl. "I've never _seen _such a despicable liar… and we've met some earnest contenders, master."

"There is a significant difference between a con man and a lawyer," Qui-Gon mildly remonstrated.

His apprentice snorted. "Yes. The former obtains his fortune through trickery while the latter is paid handsomely for his work. The difference lies primarily in tax filing status."

The Jedi master merely lifted a brow, abstaining from further comment. It was sometimes wiser not to encourage the Padawan's acid wit by responding to it. The Nemoidian meanwhile was haranguing a small crowd outside the Galactic high courtroom's main stairwell. He eventually turned from the picketing mob and addressed the cam-droid directly.

"My client," he lisped in the unmistakable Nemoidian dialect, "is not a criminal. She is a philanthropist devoted to the common good of sentient beings in this galaxy. These accusations leveled against her are nothing but persecution heaped on the head of science and progress by an obscurantist cult. And it is high time the Courts recognized that vile and calumnious institution for what it is – the Jedi Order cannot wantonly oppress those who serve the cause of knowledge and equality for all citizens of the Republic. The day after tomorrow, when this trial commences, I shall personally-"

The Jedi master waved the holo-plate into stand-by mode, cutting off the Nemoidian's lambasting rant. He laid one hand on his student's shoulder, noting the taut stretch of muscle beneath his gently grasping fingers.

"I think perhaps you begin to see the grain of wisdom in the Chancellor's desire for a positive public relations campaign," he quietly observed. "Popular acclaim can be a powerful ally or enemy, one not to be overlooked simply because it is not founded on truth."

"Oh… yes." The young Jedi shifted uneasily beneath his hand, eliciting a small frown of concern from his teacher.

"What is it?"

Obi-Wan's shoulders slumped a trifle; he turned in place and reluctantly met the older man's gaze. "There is something I must tell you, master …. Regarding the interview with the holonet reporter the other day … I did not intend any disrespect to the Chancellor or the Council…. But…"

The older man ran a hand over his face, releasing his instinctive _bad feeling about this_ on a short breath. He stood. "Very well. Let us return to quarters and have the tragic tale in full."

He led the way out of the Archives, bearing half the Padawan's immoderate collection of holo-books under one arm, a silent and subdued Obi-Wan trailing at his heels.


	11. Chapter 11

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

_"With all the hype surrounding the controversial Zan Arbor trial set to commence later this week comes a renewal of the perennial curiosity about the reclusive and mysterious Jedi Order, and its relationship to us ordinary beings in the galaxy. As everyone knows, the Republic's famed guardians of peace and justice spend their private lives cloistered behind the ivory walls of their sacred Temple here in the Jewel of the Republic, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of commerce and family life the rest of us face each day. But thanks to an exclusive interview with the young Jedi slated to give potentially damning testimony at the Zan Arbor trial, some of the myth and misunderstanding can finally be dispelled. As it turns out, Jedi aren't exempt from the stresses of modern life – as this special edition report will reveal, through an in-depth look at the Order's Troubled Youth._

_That's right: deprived of healthy social interaction and recreational outlets, and suffering from strictly imposed sexual repression, adolescents growing up within the Temple's rigorous enclave have little chance of normal psychological development. This puts them in a high risk category for deviant behavior, self-destructive interests and hobbies, and of course depression and suicide. A feeling of profound alienation from the society they are bound to serve – consigned to serve without free choice, and under incredible pressure from a disciplinarian and controlling institution which has sole educational and custodial rights over these children from the age of two upward –contributes to the dangerous cycle of frustration and self-castigation which characterizes these disturbed teens and young adults…"_

-Excerpt from the Coruscant-based holonet program_ "_Spekkopolos' Daily Digest, Special Evening Edition"

* * *

Garen Muln greeted his childhood friend with an ebullient grin, pulling up a stool beside him and propping his long, booted legs out in front of him. "Ah, meditative serenity," he quipped. "A true master can achieve it in the most humble of surroundings, the most adverse of circumstances."

Obi-Wan flipped his Vespari steel knife over in one hand and deftly slit the skin of a tuber-fruit, squeezing the root out of its rough covering in one fluid motion and idly tossing the peeled portion over one shoulder into a steaming cauldron of water on the cook-top behind him, not bothering to spare a glance at the target. The vegetable landed with a solid thunk, sloshing scalding water onto the gleaming kitchen floor and the counters. A cleaning droid bleeped in consternation and set about vacuuming up the mess.

"So," Garen continued, "Are you going to tell me what you're doing here, or must I assume this is a result of your habitual diplomatic brilliance?"

His companion shot him a scathing look and held out a hand. Another tuber came sailing into his grasp from a heaping pile across the room.

Garen rose to his feet and restlessly paced about the tiled space, nodding at the staff members and cook-bots milling about at other work stations. He peered curiously into the simmering pot, and then considered the remaining heap of unpeeled vegetables with a calculating air. The Force sparkled with mirth as comprehension dawned. "Oh ho," he chuckled darkly. "Not just the grunt work, but a vow of silence too?" He spun on his heel, casting a triumphant smile upon his scowling comrade. "You must have ticked Master Jinn off _royally_."

A magniloquent eye-roll confirmed this suspicion and fanned the fires of amusement.

Garen's intuition supplied the rest. "_Fierfek!_ Kenobi, you gundark – this has to do with that holonet piece, doesn't it? The PR special feature on "troubled Jedi youth"! That was a riot – Reeft and I about hit the ceiling laughing. Bant wanted to kill us. You smart-mouthed _ass._"

His friend's mouth thinned into a dangerous line, only encouraging further teasing.

"You haven't been in _this_ kind of trouble since… well. Never mind. And speaking of which, I don't wish to impute selfish motives to you, Kenobi, but just _try_ to tell me this isn't a gambit to get out of Madame Nu's lecture later today. You cunning barve – I should have thought of that."

Obi-Wan's sardonic grunt left his tormentor little to work with; the other Padawan subsided and crouched down upon the stool again, slapping his friend on the back. "I really came to say farewell. The pilot program's headed out to Vandor and then Mirox or Seta 8. Won't be back for weeks …." He hesitated, all humor leached from his manner. "I just wanted to say, may the Force be with you. During the trial, I mean."

The next tuber sloshed forlornly into the pot. The two Padawans exchanged a long and somber look.

"Thank you, Garen."

"You want me to stay and help with this lot? I've got an hour."

But the subject of the humiliating punishment merely shook his head in negation and summoned another tuber from the massive pile, lapsing back into a strictly maintained silence.

Garen stood, reluctantly taking his leave. "All right, Obi. Force keep you."

And with one last parting smile and a solid punch in the shoulder, Garen Muln strode away, leaving his friend to his penitential task and his sustained brooding.

* * *

Qui-Gon stepped over a greasy slick of spilled lubricant and edged toward the back of the echoing garage-bay. Mechanics in stained and dingy uni-suits watched his progress across the cracked dura-crete with indifference, apathetically lounging against half-dismantled air-taxis or sitting upon overturned cargo crates with a smokestick dangling between their lips.

"Oi! Qui-Gon, ol' buddy!" An unmistakable baritone rang through the chemical-laden air. Dexter Jettster was ensconced in a far corner, the entrails of several decrepit hoverbikes scattered at his feet in sloppy piles, the contents of a tool kit proportioned for gargantuan hands arrayed upon a flimsy workbench.

The Jedi master nipped between the gutted chassis of two 'bikes and submitted to the Besalisk's crushing four-armed embrace with good humor. "I was not aware mechanics was your line of work," he observed, gaze flitting to the various repair projects surrounding his affable acquaintance.

"Moonlightin', is what I'm doin' here. I'm just a simple feller tryin' to make his way in the universe, not high and mighty like you Jedi, now." A sly grin accented this remark. "Though you'll be admittin' a bit o' saboteur's knowledge comes in handy now and then."

"And what would you know of that, Dex?" Qui-Gon mildly inquired, seeking out a relatively oil-free place to sit. He decided upon an upright _Chazzo 700 Metro-Zoom. _

The reptilian wiped two of his hands on a filthy rag. "Nothin'!" he retorted. "I'm a big _naïf _when it comes to stuff like that." A wink. "Ask anyone who don't know nothing and they'll tell ya the same."

"Obi-Wan was impressed with your arsenal of skills."

"Tha's different. Passin' on wisdom to the next generation don't count. By the way, where _is_ yer shadow? Surprised he didn't badger ya to let him tag along, seein' as I always feed him good and proper."

The tall man smiled tightly. "He found himself otherwise occupied this morning."

Dex nodded sagely, another slow grin spreading across his crenellated face. "Oh ho – you mean he's got hisself in hot water. Hope it weren't nothin' to do with them Troubled Jedi Youth in the holo-news."

The Besalisk was alarmingly perceptive. Qui-Gon snorted ruefully. "I'm afraid his petty vices are just as tenacious as he is. In this case, his sharp wit backfired – and he must contend with the fallout."

Dex's throat sack swelled to enormous proportions as he wheezed his amusement. "Ah well, poor lad, now he's learning the definition of Troubled Youth, eh?" Another rasping chuckle. "So tell me, then, what brings you down to my lowly haunts? It ain't social, I'll wager. You got that _look_ in yer eye."

Qui-Gon rummaged in a belt pouch and cautiously withdrew the poisoned _micohastae_ spine identified by Agrion Pertha. "This. An assassin presently loose on Coruscant is using projectiles of this kind with a silent dart-gun – very primitive. I'm told by a reliable expert the life form from which this hails is extremely rare, even on its native world of Rugosa. Is there a dealer in the Underworld who might be a supplier?"

The Besalisk extended two sausage-like fingers and plucked the deadly object from the Jedi's grasp with impressive delicacy. "Hmmm," he grumbled. "Tha's some kinda exotic plant thingummy, eh? Lemme think… " He cast a wary glance at the other denizens of the mechanic garage. "Tell ya what – let's nip across the way and have a cuppa. I got a couple ideas about this here pointy feller. Jist don't want folks _overhearin' _ too much, if you take my meaning."

Qui-Gon nodded his assent, understanding that whatever information Dex might provide him was also strictly _sub rosa_, something to be entered in the eventual mission report as stemming from a "personal intuitive guess." He would never compromise his friend's integrity by naming him as an informant.

Ten minutes later they were stowed in the dim back room of _Meatier-ite,_ the local working class diner. The drab décor and fat-laden fare in no way discouraged customers from frequenting the small shop; the to-go counter was bustling with the midday rush.

Qui-Gon limited his indulgence to a steaming mug of dubiously fresh caff, while Dex laid into a quadruple pre-fab sandwich with evident gusto.

"Nice place, eh?" the reptilian asked conversationally. "Lookin' for something jist like this myself – got a fair nest egg tucked away now, ready to invest. Thinking a tidy little location over Tarkall way or maybe Coco town… cute new fittings, call it "Dex's Place.""

The Jedi master's brows rose. "You have restaurateur's experience?" Nothing would surprise him; Dex's resume was as diverse and chequered as any harlequin's garb.

"Nah… but ya don't need experience to run a place like this," the Besalisk grinned. He held up the nearly demolished remnants of his sandwich. "Ain't like this is real food or anythin'. An' as fer business sense in general, I got that in spades." A wet chuckle, setting his throat sack to ballooning out again.

"Fair point, my friend."

"Now, this needle-thing ya got there." Dex popped the last bite in his mouth, chewing contemplatively. "If that's' as rare as yer botanical friend says, then I got only one guess where ya might score such a thing here'n Galactic City. Fellow just started a _jargul_ den down in the …ah… Roshhka district, I think. Level 156 or some such. Not just _jargul_ trees but he's got a whole emporium of exotic flora going – that's the front, ya see. Dealer in rare species. The real business is in the back."

Qui-Gon tapped the fingers of one hand against the sticky tabletop. "_Jargul_ addiction is a new fad here in the Core. Is the owner from off-world?"

Dex shrugged. "Ain't we all? Don't know. But tha's where I'd check, if I were you. Just a hunch."

"I'm much obliged."

The reptilian leaned back in his seat, spreading all four hands upon the table. "Might wanna take that Padawan o'yers down there, too. Might be a _new experience _fer him, eh?" Dex bared his double row of razored teeth. "Now that he's a man o' the world an' all."

"Yes… I'm sure he would find it highly educational."

* * *

_Judge Zhudii: corpulent, forbidding, wearing the __robe and insignia of the High Court. The bailiff: grey-faced, stern, uniformed __and devoid of emotion. Bune Dauggl: fleshy, mottled, oozing smug confidence._  
_And behind him, flanked by a pair of high security prison guards, masked and __expressionless, Jenna Zan Arbor: smoke colored hair cropped severely short, __eyes fervent with self-righteousness, with dedication to her cause, mouth __hardened into stubborn resolve, into battle-readiness._

_The charges were read, a monotonic recital of villainies and obscenities, a litany of atrocious blasphemy against life, against the Force itself; a heavy pause in which the prisoner merely tilted her chin upward, derisive and unrepentant; the clear and unabashed denial of any guilt. Not guilty._

_Not guilty, your honor._

Obi-Wan skimmed through a half-dozen repetitions of the arraignment holo-footage, slowing the recording to peer at Jenna Zan Arbor's cold and pinched face as she baldly declared herself innocent of all charges, and then letting the moving image blur into a meaningless fizzle of light and sound again, flesh and blood and voices smeared into the indifferent medium of projected light.

_Not guilty._ His jaw clenched, Tahl's pain-worn face swimming before his inner eye. _Not guilty._

"Murderess," he growled, fists tightening upon his knees. He mustn't… it was _wrong…_

_Not guilty. _There is no emotion. There is peace.

He might have felt some emotion, but he was careful to release into the Force before it could clamor for deeper examination. There is no passion; there is serenity.

_Not guilty. _There is no ignorance. There is knowledge. There is no…

He slammed the holo-plate into standby, breath coming short. No. No passion. No ignorance. And above all, no…_death._ There is the Force.

His solitude in the Archives study alcove was shattered by an amicable intruder. "Aha! The hermit in his hovel!"

_Not guilty. _No emotion. He forced himself to turn, to greet the newcomer with a welcoming smile, a mask over that which was not.

"Reeft!" he choked out. "Aren't you supposed to be in the hyperdrive engineering qual-exams?"

The thin Dressalian's mouth spilt in a fulsome grin. "Nailed 'em. First one finished. I don't' know why anyone makes such a fuss about the differential algorithms.. Master Chopra agrees with me, too." He shrugged. "So I thought I'd hunt you down. Thought you might stand in need of some company."

Reeft was seldom so tactful. Obi-Wan's brows rose in pleasant surprise. With Garen headed off-world, and Bant perpetually entangled in healers' work, and Siri… gone, it was a welcome comfort to have a confidante of his own age and rank. "Let me guess – you're starving."

His friend snorted in half-humorous derision. "I ate before I came. You're _second _ on the agenda, Bi-Bi-Wan."

Wincing at the use of a long-abandoned nickname bestowed upon him in infancy, when the intricacies of his proper one had proved too much for a lisping tongue, he feigned confusion. "If we're not to eat, then what else is there, Reeft?"

The Dressalian seized him by the elbow and hauled him unceremoniously down the passage to the nearest swift tube. "I'm going to drop in on Troon, and you're coming with me."

"What? I don't think-"

"Nonsense!" They jumbled into the open tube, Reeft all but shoving his companion in ahead of him. "You need a distraction." His wrinkled face again spilt into an uproarious expression of mirth. "Being so _repressed_ and all. We've got to sublimate all those base passions before you take up aberrant practices."

Obi-Wan leaned against the transport tube's convex wall and folded his arms crossly. "Very amusing."

This only provoked more chuckling. "You _look_ repressed, 'Nobi. Lighten up! You'll make the initiates cry with that face. Trust me, I'm an expert on child psychology."

"In that case, perhaps you should simply apply for a post as crèche-master, my friend."

Reeft shook both hands at him in mock terror. "No! I'm not brave enough for _pedagogy-_ I just like to visit the little blighters."

This, of course, was not entirely true; Dressalian males, by virtue of cultural tradition and profound biological predilection, had a deeply ingrained nesting and nurturing impulse. Dedicated body and soul to the Jedi, Reeft nonetheless struggled with a residual urge to shelter and protect the Temple's younglings, the instinctual desire to _nourish_ and sustain taking precedence even over his passion for advanced mathematics and engineering. Reeft's habitual mournfulness and preoccupation with food dissipated when he was in the company of Troon's small charges.

"Hm. I think _you're _ the repressed one, Reeft. On Dressalia, you'd likely have two or three wives by now, and a dozen offspring. Just imagine."

The other Padawan grasped at his head, comically. "Don't torment me; I can almost _hear _the hen-pecking."

Obi-Wan raised a brow. "You should be used to that … you spend enough time in Garen's company."

They broke into an unrestrained bout of shared laughter, regaining control only when the tube slid to a halt and issued them into the upper level concourse nearest the clan dormitories. "Poor barve isn't even here to defend his honor," Reeft chortled, leading the way out. "Shame on you, talking behind his back."

"No fear - I owe him one."

Troon Palo opened the wide double doors to his domain in person. The giant clan-master roared in delight when the pair presented themselves upon his doorstep with a double bow. "Excellent!" he declared, voice shaking the rafters as always. "Just in time, Reeft – oh, and you've brought _this_ incorrigible ruffian with you!" A hairy arm reached to pin the aforesaid villain in a headlock. Obi-Wan ducked and slipped away, warily eyeing the dozen or so quietly expectant clanlings watching this encounter from behind Troon's massive legs.

"Well, come in – we were about to have a little game of hoverball. You two lads can be the goalies, that'll do nicely." The Padawans were hustled into the playroom's bright confines, where the difficulties of trans-dimensional engineering and the moral ambiguities of public relations could, at least for a short and boisterous time, be utterly laid aside in favor of a pure and honorable battle royale, amid the delighted screams of the tiny Dragons.


	12. Chapter 12

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

"It will be my pleasure, Master Jinn," Knight Spruu assured the Order's resident maverick, bowing gracefully. He tucked the tracking coder into his own belt pouch. "Any excuse for an adventure in the city, no?"

Qui-Gon's mouth twitched. "I shall pretend ignorance when you are summoned before the Council on account of _indiscretions."_

The young Twi-Lek was unfazed. He flashed his most winning smile. "Wish me luck then."

"There is no such thing as luck, Feld. My thanks – and may the Force be with you."

No sooner had the young Knight departed than Qui-Gon's comlink chimed. He glanced at the incoming transmission code and grumbled a Huttese curse under his breath. The Council – and on short notice. This could not be good.

Heaving in a deep breath of resignation, he set off for the specified conference room in the Temple's south wing.

* * *

"You summoned me?"

Only Yoda and Mace were present; this was not a formal Council meeting, then, but a more personal matter.

"Yes," Mace grunted, casually perched atop one of the room's four meditation pads, one booted foot still upon the floor, the other tucked up upon the cushion. "You have seen the latest media debacle, I take it?"

He had. Qui-Gon allowed his gaze to slide sideways, gauging Yoda's mood. The Grand Master hunched upon his own seat, wizened face puckered into a knot of distaste, of aged impatience.

"Provoked a belligerent response, your Padawan has," the ancient Jedi grumbled. "Stirring mud in bog. Unwise."

The tall man let his chagrin dissipate into the Force. "I have already dealt with him, masters."

"I'm sure," Mace replied, dark humor rippling in an invisible corona about him.

Yoda huffed and waved a blunt clawed hand at him. "Care not for public opinion, does the Council or the Order. But not helpful are ill reports concerning us. A disservice has Spekkopolos done the Jedi, in this _report_ of his. A twisting of truth, founded perhaps on resentment, hmm?"

Qui-Gon closed his eyes briefly. "There is little to be done now," he pointed out.

Mace was not satisfied. "This _cannot_ happen again, Qui-Gon. Your apprentice is headstrong and possesses a sharp wit and a sharp tongue. Tomorrow – and thereafter, at the trial – he _must not_ allow personal sentiment to overrule his prudence. I have already spoken to him regarding our expectations. I think it would be best if you _reiterate_ the importance of restraint."

In other words, pound it into the boy's head. Qui-Gon made a short bow. "I will see to it," he replied, heavily. Another lesson to be learned, another burden to be borne. With such a surfeit of obstacles strewn in the Padawans' path all at once, it would be a miracle of the Force should he _succeed_ in the test laid before him.

"Do." But Mace was not finished with unpleasant revelation. "More to the point, this report and the publicity surrounding Zan Arbor's arraignment have sparked a fair amount of outside interest, including yet another request for an interview with Padawan Kenobi."

"Which the Council has denied," Qui Gon asserted. "Surely." For the good of both parties involved.

Yoda and Mace exchanged a meaningful look. "No," the ancient Jedi chuffed. "More difficult is this request – invited this person to Temple we have. Speak to her in person you shall.

The tall man's brows rose. "Forgive me if I –"

"Qui-Gon," Mace interrupted. "You don't understand. We will extend appropriate courtesy and receive her as a guest." He levitated a small datapad across the room into his colleague's hand, encouraging the other man to read the relevant communiqué.

It took a moment to pull the message up on the device's screen, but having once read its contents and the name appended, Qui-Gon merely bowed his head in reluctant agreement. "This is… unexpected. I shall meet with her, of course."

Yoda chuckled raspily. "Not entirely wrong, was the holonet report. Magnet for trouble is your Padawan."

The Jedi master nodded his wry agreement and took his leave, proceeding down the hall with a grim and purposeful stride.

* * *

Obi-Wan abruptly switched off the engraving tool and set it upon the workbench, frowning as he sought to grasp an elusive _feeling,_ one that wafted across his awareness like a restless specter, a snatch of song or some once-familiar scent he could not quite _recall._ A thrill traveled down his spine, spreading in an uneasy ripple through his belly – and yet, he could not pin the Force-borne intuition down. It fled from his reaching psychic fingers, insubstantial as morning fog, impalpable as an infant's fluttering breath.

He closed his eyes and practiced a simple centering technique, wresting his wayward attention back to the present moment and its absorbing task. The hilt of his new creation was nearly finished, the ridges in the handgrip grooved into place, the protective alloy filling ready to be applied. The emitter plate was crafted, but that would wait until he had adjusted the power cell matrix and of course, the amplifier chamber, both more delicate operations than this more aesthetic undertaking. He hefted the empty cylinder in his left hand, reverse-gripped. Yes, another few ounces and…

And nothing. He did not have a second saber-crystal to embed in this weapon's heart. Nor he could he requisition one of the lower-grade samples stored in the Temple's workshop. To do so, he would need Qui-Gon's express approval and sanction… and therein lay a complication.

Master Jinn was strictly opposed to deliberate cultivation of dual-bladed technique. _The Force is a Jedi's true weapon, Padawan. Focus on elaborate martial forms or enhanced tools distracts from the core truth of saber combat: we fight with our hearts, and these must be pure and undivided._ As ever, the direct approach.

The Padawan's mouth twisted wryly as he carefully set about work again, wondering if his _theoretical_ venture should be considered an act of minor sedition… and what he was going to say to the revered Jedi master when his little project was complete.

"If you are experiencing difficulties, I am available for consultation," Master Huyang offered.

"That won't be necessary," Obi-Wan grunted. After all, difficulties were his special-ity.

* * *

Qui-Gon centered himself in the Force, standing outside the sealed door to the fourth level hospitality lounge. Of course, from a certain point of view he already _knew_ the visitor waiting for him on the other side; on the other hand, this was a most unexpected and _ill-timed_ encounter. But the Council had chosen to accommodate the woman's request, at least to some small degree, and the Force had chosen this moment to bring about the unlikely visitation. There was naught to be done but to face the occasion squarely and act as he saw best.

He waved open the door and crossed into the sun-drenched interior, the domed space awash in pale blues and soft golds. His-their- guest was studying Coruscant's dizzying sprawl though a far window. At his entrance, she turned.

Middle aged, human, on the petite side even for a woman – not fine boned but still handsome: high cheekbones, an expressive mouth, wide eyes and high color flushing over pale skin. Twenty years ago she might have turned heads, and likely still did; there was an unconscious confidence in her posture and tasteful dress, a sense of style far deeper than mere fashion dictated. Her clothing was simple enough, but a closer look revealed the cloth to be expensive, the workmanship painstaking. A taste for quality rather than ostentation, then. Interesting, but not surprising. Her breathing was, naturally, too fast and shallow and her nervous tension was manifest in the Force – a noteworthy fact in itself, for while she clearly had no shielding ability, her unconscious signature was brighter than the norm. Mildly Force-sensitive, the Jedi concluded. A quality that would only have lent subtle charisma to her other natural charms.

"Madam." A deep bow – it behooved them all to show deepest respect to those who were, in some sense, the wellsprings of the Order.

Clearly unsure what protocol of greeting was most appropriate between them, the woman cast a keenly assessing glance about the welcoming surroundings and made a snap decision. She held out a hand, warming the room with a brilliant smile. "Please, Master Jedi – do sit down so we may speak. I fear the niceties of formal exchange will only cause further awkwardness between us – and I assure you, my intention is not to foster hostility or misunderstanding." A cultured accent and intonation bespoke an upper caste Core or Mid-Rim origin.

His brows rose; a trained diplomat would not have done better. As though to encourage his cooperation, she crossed to the cozy circle of chairs and settees in the room's center and seated herself upon the nearest, raising a hand to smoothly adjust the pin holding her mass of graying chestnut hair in place. She met his gaze steadily, unease radiating in the Force but nowhere apparent in her bearing or expression.

She had clearly been to a top rate finishing school; and that meant _old money_ and the cultural habits pertaining thereto. Qui-Gon waited for her to make the next move, feeling out the best way to approach the delicate subject that hung unspoken between them.

"Forgive me," she continued, wilting a little beneath his penetrating regard but rising to the challenge with unusual courage. "I am sure you know who I am, but I was not told your name by the young person who escorted me here…"

Of course not – circumspection was drilled into them all at an early age. Even Obi-Wan was habitually _discreet_, despite his occasional lapse into outrageous impudence. He inclined his head. "Qui-Gon Jinn. I was asked to meet with you personally to dispel what doubts I can. I am afraid that recent holo-media have disseminated a good deal of false information concerning our Order, and its individual members."

"Indeed," the woman concurred. "Even before this latest bit of media gossip – and I assure you, I do not give undue credence to such drivel – my husband and I found our faith in your Order shaken by what little information as we heard concerning this upcoming trial, and the particular Jedi involved."

"Is your husband also on-world at this time?"

"No – he does not care to fly; I am only here on business, and shall return home shortly. But while I have the opportunity – in light of the horrific events of two years ago –"

"What you speak of were crimes committed by Zan Arbor, not a reflection upon the Order," the Jedi master calmly objected.

Fire flashed behind the woman's eyes. "All we know is that a fifteen year old boy was put in terrible danger and subjected to unthinkable cruelty. How is that not your doing? Do you not protect your children? Do you thrust them into such deadly peril without a thought?" She caught herself, blushing violently. "Forgive me. I overstep. But you must understand, Master Jinn – it raises terrible doubts."

Qui-Gon released a long steadying breath. The matter was far more complicated than she supposed, and yet lengthy explanation would be futile, possibly damaging. "You wish to speak in person with my apprentice, then? To assuage your fears?"

Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension at the word _apprentice, _but she quickly recomposed herself. "I do. If you will permit it. I ask this as a favor, not as a demand."

"We come to serve," Qui-Gon cautiously responded. "I would not deny such a request without grave reason."

"I hope not," the lady remarked, dryly.

Slightly taken aback, not so much by the words as by a certain _something_ about their delivery, he opted for the direct approach. "Your request, madam, is rare but not unprecedented. And, under other circumstances, I would be willing to make arrangements. But you must understand that this moment, on the eve of the Zan Arbor trial, such a meeting would prove highly distracting, even distressing."

Her face stilled, and he braced himself for an upsurge of sentimental objection, but his interlocutor again proved her mettle, merely tightening her folded hands in her lap and lifting her chin. "Yes. I see that… and I am aware that my legal rights in this matter are null. But, Master Jinn, is there not some way we may arrange for such a thing in the near future, then?"

"I have given consideration to such a meeting in the past – and I shall consider it again in future – on your world would be best, I think. That is all I can promise you at this time. Duty and opportunity do not always permit such plans to come to fruition, especially for us."

His words were met with another question, one formulated with calm acuity. "And when you say _you_ will consider, I am led to believe you, rather than Galactic law, hold some measure of final authority in this matter?"

The Jedi master's mouth twisted ruefully. The woman guessed far more than she let on; the Force betrayed her suspicions and the medley of strange emotion associated with them, though her sabaac face was flawless. He did not bother to prevaricate. "I have complete authority over my apprentice in such respects," he informed her, bluntly. "According to our traditions, a master's prerogatives are absolute."

The reminder and subtle revelation hurt; he watched her color rise and her brows quirk together slightly into a pained furrow. But her composure held. "I understand. I thank you for your honesty. It is … strangely reassuring."

He stood, mutely inviting her to do the same, and thus end the difficult interview. She studied him intently for another long minute before gracefully rising to her own feet. "You are not what I imagined," she told him, thoughtfully. Then, "Will you tell him…"

"No." He bowed, apologetically. Duty came first. There was no room for distraction, not under such pressure. "Perhaps later. I am sorry."

And with this, the conversation, such as it had been, was over. She inclined her head, in imitation of his solemn gesture. "I thank you for sparing me your time and attention."

"My honor. I will ask Initiate Kepel to escort you back to the transport hangar."

* * *

Tahl stirred awake with a small groan.

"Master… can I help?"

Exhaling slowly, she turned her head toward the speaker, one hand feebly waving away his offer of assistance. "No… it's late." She frowned. "Shouldn't you be in bed? The trial… tomorrow."

Obi-Wan leaned in toward her hoarse voice. "I won't sleep tonight, master," he quietly responded. "I – I'm keeping you company instead."

"Oh, young one." Tahl subsided, measuring her breaths carefully for a minute or so, laying wasted and hollowed amid the mounds of blankets and pillows. "What did you bring to read to me, then? I won't sleep either… not well, anyhow."

He glanced down at the holo-volume in his hands. "I'm sorry; it's a mere personal interest. Master Seva's commentary on lesser saber styles and variants. It might not make good material for recitation."

"Nonsense. Let's hear it… just from where you left off." Her hand fell limply upon the coverlet, skeletal and webbed with enlarged veins.

He flicked the text back to active mode and drew in a deep and shuddering breath and found his place.

"…_another preferred variant in which all defensive action is executed with the caenilum –_ that's his name for a 'saber, a standard length blade, I mean – _while the shoto is reserved for offensive strikes. Advocates of this discipline hold that the shoto blade is lesser in length and held in a reverse grip to signify that aggression is less honorable than protection and to be undertaken only with regret. While the symbolism of this style is sound and admirable, in accord with the fundamental tenets of the Order , it is to be noted that such an a priori limitation of combative possibilities is highly impractical, and that this form of practice should be pursued primarily as a meditative exercise and not as a path of martial excellence."_

Tahl snorted. "You enjoy this sort of thing, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan dredged up a smile for her. "This is _fascinating,_ master."

"If you say so. It's better than that dreadful dynastic history of yours, anyhow. Carry on."

"_Contrariwise, much dispute has centered upon the dual-bladed variants over the centuries due to the wide offensive possibilities engendered by use of a shoto. An adept of defensive caenilum techniques who has trained his left or non-dominant side into independent motion can maintain a perfect defensive dueling center with his primary blade while leaving open attack strikes on the opposite side. This is especially spectacular as a complement to Djem So or Ataru, increasing the power and fluidity of the fundamental form – _ master, you aren't really listening."

Tahl sighed, a broken rattle echoing beneath her chest. "No… not my cup of tea…"

He set the book down, reaching for her fragile hand. "I'm sorry. I'll go."

But she stirred again, brows quirking upward in restless discomfort. "No, don't go. Stay so I can feel you." She caught her breath. "Sing instead."

He had no heart to sing, but for Tahl he would do nearly anything. "Um.." He cleared his throat and sat up, gut clenching in protest. "Yes, master."

"Go on." She closed her milky, sightless eyes and squeezed his hand, the Force flowing through her now like an open sieve, barely eddying as it pooled and overflowed from within her failing body. "Stop thinking about tomorrow. Just sing."

So he did, quietly enough not to disturb the ward's other patients, the pure tones of the canticle somewhat marred here and there by rough and husky edges. Tahl listened, the pain on her haggard face gently smoothing into peace as she drifted into a welcome and dreamless oblivion, the well-earned rest of a traveler drawing nigh to grueling journey's end.

Qui-Gon's carefully veiled presence in the doorframe went unnoticed until several minutes of introspective silence had elapsed.

"Master!"

"You don't intend to spend the entire night here, do you?" The Padawan's lack of immediate retort was eloquent. "Come. You need to rest. I'll walk you back to quarters."

Thus cornered, the young Jedi had no choice but to comply. He tucked the holo-book inside one wide cloak sleeve. "Yes, master."

"You are not fretting unnecessarily about the trial, are you?" Qui-Gon queried as they slipped from the Halls of Healing into a connective passage, heading for the lifts. "I thought _brooding_ upon the future was forbidden."

"It's not the trial, master – it's something else. Elusive. I felt… something… earlier today. Not a _bad_ feeling, just … a strange one. As if there is someone nearby whom I've forgotten but I should remember…I can't properly describe it."

The Jedi master kept his tranquil pace, all too keenly aware of the meaning of his Padawan's vague premonition. "You weren't lightheaded from intensive kitchen labors, were you?' he inquired, teasingly, steering this conversation away from the rocks of truth, where it might flounder and be utterly wrecked..

Obi-Wan favored him with a sarcastic glare. "_No."_

Chuckling softly, Qui-Gon waved open the lift doors and shepherded his apprentice inside. "Keep your focus in the present moment, where it belongs."

A long-suffering sigh. "Yes, master."


	13. Chapter 13

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

"_Blast_ it."

Qui-Gon placidly watched his protégé stalk through their quarters for the third time, eyes darting hither and yon in search of some –presumably- mislaid object, a thunderous frown contracting his brows. The long, freshly-plaited Padawan braid swung low beneath his right shoulder, the auburn tuft at its end catching an idle beam of morning sunlight spilling through the open balcony doors.

The tall man drained his tea cup and set it upon the low common room table, folding arms across his chest. "Obi-Wan."

This mild remonstrance brought the young Jedi up short in his vexed perambulation.

"I've lost my cloak … again."

It was not an auspicious occasion to deliver the much-deserved rebuke, even had Qui-Gon cherished hopes of the reminder proving efficacious. He settled for a worn stand-by. "You must be more mindful. And such a trifling inconvenience does not merit such frantic expenditure of energy. Focus: we'll simply stop by the quartermaster on our way out of Temple."

Obi-Wan did not look as though he deemed this suggestion a wise one, but he swallowed whatever private objection he harbored and offered only a meek nod of acquiescence.

"Good. Are we ready, then?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely _pining _to be on our way," came the waspish reply.

Qui-Gon made one last inspection of his apprentice's appearance: tunics and boots immaculate, face shaven, unruly spikes of hair ruthlessly trimmed into something resembling order, braid neatly rebound, saber hilt gleaming. Perfectly presentable, minus one cloak – and perfectly agreeable so long as the Padawan stemmed the tide of sarcasm and irony that tended to overflow when he was under pressure.

Satisfied that they would pass muster and the acute scrutiny of the holo-media, the Jedi master signaled that they should depart, waving open the door only to find the threshold occupied by a grinning visitor in the act of raising his hand to the chime.

"Good morning!" Feld Spruu exclaimed, flashing a charming smile and tossing both blue lekku over his shoulders. "I see I have nearly missed you – but I come bearing gifts."

Qui-Gon inclined his head as the young Twi-Lek knight ambled in, eyes widening theatrically at the Padawan. "Oh ho, Obi-Kenobi, you clean up very nicely. On the outside, I mean – there's no hope of redeeming your insides."

"It must be the company I keep."

Feld raised his brows, leaning in close. "Don't let Master Jinn hear you malign him so openly, my little friend."

"Don't keep Master Jinn waiting when he is impatient to hear the news," the Jedi master cut in, affecting a stern mien.

Feld Spruu was not intimidated, but he did execute a graceful bow to the older man. "Forgive me," he said, without contrition. "I came to tell you I _did _hunt down that tracker last night – all the way into the Yorbel district underlevels."

"And..?"

The Twi'Lek Jedi shrugged diffidently. "Refuse bin in a dark alley. Just outside a cheap hostelry. I made inquiries in the neighborhood, but nobody is talking. Which means they are afraid. Which means – "

"He has a known and powerful employer," Qui-Gon finished. "Thank you, Feld, for undertaking the chore. I am appreciative."

"Yes, and thank you for foregoing your beauty rest in the cause of duty, Master Spruu," Obi-Wan added, impishly. "Your sacrifice is manifest."

"_You," _the blue-skinned Knight threatened, feigning outrage at this piece of effrontery and wagging a finger at his young friend's face, "are going to _lose_ that tongue of yours if you keep wagging it so injudiciously."

"He's already lost his cloak," the Jedi master added. "Don't encourage him."

Feld Spruu failed to suppress his amusement. "The quartermaster is going to put a price on your head," he observed, slipping his own dark robe off his broad shoulders and tossing it at the Padawan. "I'll spare you his displeasure."

Obi-Wan gratefully donned the heavy garment, adjusting its thick folds and shoving hands into opposite sleeves. "My thanks."

Feld nodded, sobering. "And may the Force be with you today."

They exited together, bypassing the unpleasant encounter with the quartermaster and headed directly for a far more noxious one in the High Court.

* * *

They took a private Temple aircar – a conveyance outfitted with a sound and pressure-proofed passenger compartment, and piloted by an earnest non-Jedi staff member. They hummed along the free-fly lane at a brisk clip, watching other streams of traffic course through the invisible veins and arteries of the city's vast body, countless millions of corpuscles perpetually hurrying on their way, pulsing to the rhythms of commerce and industry, political intrigue and criminal undertaking.

Obi-Wan suddenly turned his face from the view, a faint giddiness registering in the Force.

"Easy," Qui-Gon advised. He sat directly beside the younger Jedi, anchor and bulwark at once. "You've faced much worse."

The Padawan's expression was aggrieved. "I'm not _intimidated,_ master."

The tall man raised his brows. "Forgive me for imputing timidity to you. Perhaps it's nothing but stage fright?"

The jest fell flat. The young Jedi sank deeper into the cushions of the passenger bench, arms folded deep within the sleeves of the oversized cloak. "Master Dooku said that it would have been simpler had you cut her down on Telos."

This arrested Qui-Gon's attention. "Master Dooku is not an infallible oracle; nor is he charged with deciding her fate, nor with judging my actions – nor with interference in your training." The words left his lips too sharply, clipped by trepidation and resentment.

Obi-Wan felt it all. The line between his brows deepened. "Why do you dislike him? He was your own master."

A bizarre detour for this conversation to take… Qui-Gon sighed. "I honor and revere Master Dooku, of course. He raised me. But we do not always see eye to eye."

The Padawan refrained from mentioning Qui-Gon's equally strained relationship with the Council at large. "I did not say that easier was _better,"_ he clarified. Then, "If Zan Arbor is not convicted – if she somehow manages to escape _justice…"_

The tall man shifted, turning in his seat to get a better view of his apprentice's face. "Then what, precisely?" he demanded, alarm sounding at the back of his mind. "What are you saying, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan's voice took on a huskier timbre, rough edges betraying some inner uncertainty. "I don't know," he answered, helplessly.

And they had no time to meditate. The trial had stirred deep waters, a subtle tectonic sliding of truths and circumstances, a hairline fracture spreading outward from some buried shatterpoint. For a moment Qui-Gon felt the dizzying vista of the future unfold beneath him, the present crumbling into bleak possibilities, abysses of fire and ice. Balanced precariously upon a tipping point, he seemed to teeter between this life and some other, this duty and some greater, present disaster and future cataclysm. With an effort he banished the unwanted, sickening advances of premonition.

He slid an arm about his apprentice's shoulders, commanding attention through the most fundamental medium. "Focus on the here and now," he ordered, soft but stern.

And for a blessed few moments they were both six years younger and less wise, at the outset of their long journey together, unencumbered by loss and dark conspiracy, free of memory and carrying only hope and trust in their hearts. Obi-Wan gratefully leaned into the rare embrace, and then drew away with a half-guilty shrug.

Qui-Gon smiled wistfully and gave the Padawan's braid a gentle. thoughtful tug.

And they flew on.

* * *

Security surrounding the High Court was stringent; they made it as far as the private docking bay and the pedestrian plaza outside the building without incident. But that was where their good fortune ended, for arrayed upon the wide marble steps, restrained by a picket line of armed Senatorial guards, an impressive crowd of protesters had made its stand, translucent floating holo-signs flashing crude slogans and provocative images. Qui-Gon stepped closer to his student, subtly propelling the young man toward the main entrance, ascending the stairwell at a brisk pace as the angry citizens booed and shouted.

"The Force is a farce!"

"Science, not superstition!"

"Protectors don't persecute!"

By the time they reached the summit, Obi-Wan was brimming with indignation. "I thought _Zan Arbor _ was the one on trial here," he grumbled.

Qui-Gon shepherded him through the massive portals with their array of security scanners and droid guardians. The humanoid sentinels flanking the doors kept their gazes trained upon the plaza outside, blaster rifles held loosely at their sides. "Bune Dauggl and Arbor's other associates have done a fine job of turning the tables, " the Jedi master admitted.

An alarm sounded and they halted for inspection.

"Weapons must be left in our custody," the head security officer apologetically informed them. "Courthouse rules."

Qui-Gon's brows beetled together. "Jedi are exempt from that clause."

The guardsman hemmed and hawed. "Sorry, Master Jedi – ah, new statutes – regulatory measures put in place for this trial – you aren't exempt any more."

The tall man's spine stiffened in irritation.

Obi-Wan lifted one hand. "We aren't bearing any –" he began, but the older Jedi cut him off in mid-sentence.

"Very well. Padawan, give him your 'saber."

The unexpected command provoked a disbelieving and highly disapproving stare from the younger Jedi, but he complied, reluctantly placing his weapon beside Qui-Gon's in a plastoid bin, which the man marked and tucked away in a locker.

"You're clear. Proceed."

With a curt bow, they continued on their way, doubling back from the swift-tube terminal in the lobby where a swarm of holonet reporters and cam droids lurked like scavengers circling fresh carrion.

"We'll take the stairs," Qui-Gon decided.

"A Jedi's weapon is his life," the Padawan reminded his mentor as they jogged up to the first landing. "Why did you cave to their demands, master?"

"The courts are not our enemy, young one. I want you to realize and remember this."

Obi-Wan's Force signature rippled with annoyance. "I _know _who our opponents are – Bune Dauggl, Zan Arbor, her patrons and allies, and the star-forsaken demagogues who uphold her as a hero of progress."

"No."

They reached the sixth landing. "No?" The young Jedi made a sharp gesture of exasperation. "Master, can you not _feel_ the hostility surrounding this place? …I could choke on it."

Qui-Gon halted, momentarily barring his apprentice's way. "Exactly. It is none of these individuals or even their collective passion which is the real foe here. It is the Dark Side. And that is a peril you must face and fight _in here."_ He tapped the younger man's chest. "Be mindful. This trial poses great temptation. Do not be distracted from the real battle by what you see or hear."

Obi-Wan blanched a little, the truth sinking past his tempestuous exterior into the deeper realms of self-awareness. Some of his aggravation subsided into a more measured sobriety. "Yes, master. I will remember."

Qui-Gon hesitated and then spoke again, more softly. "Tahl would tell you the same, I think. And she of all people would be least deceived by the shadow-play of words and personalities. Beware anger and pride, Obi-Wan."

The Padawan dipped his head. "…Yes, master."

Twelve flights up, they accessed the main courtroom annex by way of the emergency escape exit and crossed the corridor to the prosecutor's chambers.

"Oh there you are!" Zuul Sangu huffed, wringing his hands as the Jedi finally made their grand entrance. "Stars, I was beginning to think you had suffered an unfortunate accident on the way here… do you know, I almost perished in an air traffic collision myself this morning? If I were a superstitious man, I would take it as a portent regarding this trial's outcome. Dear, em, dear me, where's the briefing case… ah yes, here, Padawan Kenobi, you need to give positive identification – yes, thumbprint will do. You'll be sworn in later, when I call you to the witness stand. Here is the live feed for the actual court – you must remain here and follow the progress of the case via holo-cam; witnesses have to be strictly sequestered during the proceedings. You recall the guidelines and protocol we went over? Yes? good – now then, oh dear, where's my gown and yes, ah ha! … ah, Master, ah? Jinn, isn't it, yes – if you require anything at all the service droid outside the door will fetch it for you. I must present myself to Judge Zhudii before we commence."

This breathless tirade ended in a flustered beeline for the interior doors. Abandoning the Jedi to their own devices, the disorganized barrister disappeared through the code-sealed pressure panel, lawyer's gown flapping absurdly off one shoulder and dragging upon the polished floor.

"Am I allowed to say it, master?"

Qui-Gon cocked a weary brow. "No, Padawan. You are not."

But the thought translated clearly across their bond despite the stated prohibition, carried by a wafting current of cynical despondency. And it was true, the older man ruefully added to himself: the prosecuting attorney _was_ an incompetent nincompoop.

* * *

Deep in the Force, where the frenetic exchange of words and the impassioned pomp and sprightly ornaments of rhetoric were but insubstantial ripples on the surface of a bottomless pool, the carefully crafted phrases of the prosecutor's opening statement seemed to spread out in silent rings, the merest whisper of meaning upon a tranquil abyss. Outwardly they echoed against the high courtroom walls, carried to the ears of the eager audience in their tiered seats, the judge high in her presiding chair, the jury enclosed behind the transparent security panel, their faces grave and focused as they listened enrapt to Zuul Sangu' plea for justice, for a fair retribution to heinous crimes. Inwardly, they sparked and flittered like glowmoths, like the diaphanous polar lights, snatches of argument and exhortation appearing and fading into a nebulous twilight, while Light shone unsullied throughout.

"…pursuit of knowledge should be subservient to the common good and dignity of all beings…" Inhale.

There is no emotion. "The ideals of our fair Republic do not condone the use of living subjects without full informed consent of the individual…"Exhale.

"… a travesty of the very name of science… imprisonment and torture of any being, much less those with protected ambassadorial status… " There is no passion.

There is no ignorance. "…base cruelty… illegal and suspicious funding… violation of seventeen separate Xonova Conventions … "

"….above all, tantamount to murder…." Above all, there is no true death.

There is only the Force. "A simple and straightforward decision, calling for swift justice…. To the fullest extent of the law."

Nor can there be balance without the interplay of opposites, nor truth without falsehood – or so say the philosophers, at least those who do not vociferously object to this viewpoint, thus proving it more surely than all the subtle exposition of its firmest advocates. And so, in the course of time, Sangu's voice was replaced by Dauggl's wheezing mutter, the lilting tune of a seductive lie, a deception so close to truth that its edges melted, oozing, into the grey realm between one perspective and the next, into the small chinks of certitude where doubt and suspicion might root themselves and grow weedlike to grotesque proportions.

There was still peace, but there was also this insidious undercurrent, one not ruffling the tranquil surface of the Force but tainting its depths with a writhing venom, a barely perceptible stain that dissolved and diffused until it was barely perceptible, yet tinged the whole with a faint impurity. Outwardly, it was a fascinating yarn, a plausible tale, a voice of reason crying in a wilderness; inwardly, a serpent insinuating itself into the breast of a Republic too overburdened with cares and aging customs to resist the lure of revolution, of sudden enlightenment, of a new scapegoat to burden with the guilt of its own decline.

"….my client has at heart the best interest of the galaxy's citizens… no real progress without deepening our knowledge of life itself… noble undertaking besmeared by an institution jealous of its own secrets… obscurantist and anti-intellectual cult… impede the freedom of science with antiquated superstitions and prohibitions… no evidence whatsoever…. Willing and eager to rectify small violations of procedure and reporting protocols… a gross exaggeration and unfair allotment of blame…. Unreliable testimony…. A simple matter of common sense… a complete exoneration is only just and fair."

When at last both voices fell silent, Jude Zhuddi's rasping tones raked through the court's deep- piled expectancy like hot wind through hushed dunes, whipping their soft edges into renewed eagerness. "Prosecution: You may call your first witness."

In the enclosed office, Qui-Gon Jinn stirred and settled one broad hand upon his apprentice's back. Outside, in the echoing court, Zuul Sangu hovered his speaker's pod into the center of the auditorium, straightening his robes with one pale hand. The jury tensed, eyes riveted on the figure in the spotlight and the empty space where a second hover-pod would soon appear, bearing the subject of much speculation and anticipatory curiosity.

The barrister cleared his throat. "Thank you, your honor. To the office of witness in this matter, the prosecution hereby calls Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi."


	14. Chapter 14

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

The first thing he noticed was the darkness below the hover-pod; the courtroom's distant floor was mantled and obscured by shadow, lending it the illusory appearance of a pit opening into the planet's bowels, or some legendary underworld. Floating on quiet repulsors over this abyss, Obi-Wan had the sudden sense of judgment pending upon all those present – innocent and guilty alike, judge and jury and accused, the entire edifice and structure of the court, of the Republic that was its foundation. Let the sentence but fall, and all would crumble into the ruinous chasm and be swallowed up in oblivion, he among the shattered debris and bodies, buried alive in a cataclysmic avalanche of aborted justice.

His hands gripped the rail, his focus reeled in to the painfully contracted moment by an act of will. Moral vertigo was banished to a far corner of awareness; the here and now was all that mattered- indeed, all that he could afford to encompass within the giddy bounds of his attention.

The second thing he noticed, as the pod came to a gentle halt in the very center of the wide space, mid-way between darkest night below and the luminous oval of light overhead, where radiance spilled from a high skylight, too feeble to reach his face but yet casting the distant rafters in ethereal whites and golds, was the _prisoner_ in the dock. She stood, erect and composed, at the counsel table for the defense, buttressed by a separate balcony system and fortressed round with security sensors and an invisible electro-field. The bright orange jumpsuit of the high security prison made her appear a lurid flower standing amid a field of ashes, a poisonous thing luring in the unsuspecting bezzil or mothfly. Her face was as he recalled – gaunt, skeletal, and yet lit from within by fanatic zeal; her hair shorn even more closely than his, a skull cap of hardest grey steel, her eyes slitted to appraising grey slits, her mouth a knife's edge, her bearing upright and unafraid. Even now she watched him with predatory interest, absolutely devoid of passion, of humanity, of empathy. His cloak and clothing seemed insufficient armor against that scalpel like gaze; he might as well have been a naked specimen pinned for her inspection upon some sterile dissecting table..

He returned the stare unflinching, whether or not his gut flipped in protest. There was no surrender, and no yielding in the face of such arrogant evil. Zan Arbor looked away first, to his satisfaction, but with a tiny smirk of sardonic amusement lifting the corners of her thin mouth.

A second pod approached, followed by the requisite holo-bots which would project his image and record every word here uttered. The bailiff was an Iktotchi, of emotionless mien. Obi-Wan barely heard the words of the oath-taking, noting only vaguely that the formulary was slightly changed for Jedi; he swore upon the Order's sacred praeceptium that he would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, by the Force's aid and strength. It was but a verbal affirmation of his deepest commitment. He heard his own words echoed off the walls and ceiling as the amplifier lagged a spilt second behind his actual speech. His voice broke and shattered and cascaded down among the tiers, a waterfall dancing merrily as it fell into the black pit below, and was swallowed into silence. He gripped the rail again. Focus.

There was a _presence _among the numberless spectators, an attention honed upon him with acuity parallel to the wicked scientist's, but somehow opposite. Not Qui-Gon, for he could feel the Jedi master's cautiously shielded concern resounding deep within his mind. Not a hostile obsession, like that of the assassin so recently encountered in the city. This was something else again, a curiosity far exceeding the general anticipation of the crowd.

He looked up to the place where he knew the onlooker to be, but there were too many faces to pinpoint one among the crowd. And yet at his sudden gesture, he could feel an alarmed spike of apprehension, a start of guilty surprise.

He wrenched his attention back to the present moment again, feeling Qui-Gon's worried admonition forming into coherent words along their bond. _Padawan. The task at hand._ His mind withdrew as though reflexively each time he narrowed his focus upon the trial, as though vitally repulsed, as though the _moment_ was a thing of festering slime or else coal-hot, too much to be touched.

He forced himself to hold it steady in his awareness, the Force seeming to recoil even as he remained centered.

"You may examine your witness, Mr. Sangu."

At the judge's words, a third pod hovered into the central space. This one bore Zuul Sangu, prosecuting attorney. He directed the small conveyance into the court's center and came to rest in a business-like manner directly across from the young Jedi, a weak smile plastered upon his foolish face, likely enough intended as encouragement but conveying to the witness nothing more than well-intentioned insipidity.

"Padawan Kenobi," the litigator asked, in his quavering voice, "Do you recognize the woman standing at present in the dock?" He swept a hand out to indicate the fearless scientist, who stared impassively back at him as the bevy of hovering cam-droids swooped in to get a good angle.

"Yes. That is Doctor Jenna Zan Arbor, formerly of Arbor Research Foundation."

Sangu nodded, hurrying onward. "Very good. And tell us, please, when and where you made Doctor Arbor's acquaintance."

Obi-Wan locked eyes with the sneering woman behind the security shields. "I first encountered her twenty eight months ago, on the unincorporated system Ossk 88, and subsequently upon Telos." _Encountered, _ he bitterly repeated in the privacy of his own thought. A pretty euphemism.

The lawyer made sure his audience was attentive. "And under what auspices did this encounter occur? From the beginning, please."

The Padawan sank a little into the Force, finding a center somewhere between the present and the past, a place of abstraction and objectivity. "I accompanied a team of Jedi to Ossk 88 as part of an operation to infiltrate suspect research facilities on the habitable planet. At that time, Doctor Arbor was present in the research labs. She, or her immediate superior, ordered an ambush attack and sent both sentient mercenaries and battle droids to capture me. After this, I was taken against my will to her secondary facility on Telos, where I was held captive for several days during which time Doctor Arbor was continuously present."

"I see," Sangu murmured. "Now, during the time you were held captive, what occurred?"

The Force tautened to a thrumming pitch of expectancy, as though every spectator in the vast hall had leaned forward, ears straining to hear the horrors unfold, like scavengers eager to lick every scrap of succulent scandalous flesh off a rotting corpse. Obi-Wan breathed out slowly, enmeshed at the center of this hungry mob. He could still feel that peculiar, singular presence, now scraping raw against his nerves like a mounting wail of denial. _Master… this is…_

A wave of calm, emanating from Qui-Gon's unseen center in the Light, _Do not allow distractions to waylay you. _

"During that time," he began, closing his eyes to the hordes above and around, to the _feel_ of their psychic fingers beating against his triple-fortified shields, a ravening army besieging an orderly temple, "Doctor Arbor conducted what she called research, taking blood and tissue samples repeatedly and informing me that she planned to perform a conditioning experiment involving a synth virus colonization of my meningal interstices."

"Without your consent," the litigator added. "Correct?"

"Correct. I was forcibly subdued for the entire duration of these events."

A frisson ran around the crowd, the appetizer stirring greater appetite for details. Zan Arbor remained impassive, the faintest leer of contempt stamped upon her features, an impalpable confidence exuding from her slight figure.

"By what means were you so constrained?" Sangu inquired. The hover bots closed in, a swarm of tisska gnats smelling fresh blood.

"I was heavily and continuously drugged, with at least one Force-inhibiting toxin, as well as subjected to an electrocollar and physical restraints. I was also offered no food or water, and eventually deprived of the strength to resist, due to blood loss." He paused, fighting down a sudden bout of nausea. Breathe. The Force, the present moment. "I have detailed the entire experience in the initial mission report."

"And these experiments were carried out by whom?"

"Either by Doctor Arbor in person, or her medical droid, at her explicit behest." _The droid… faceless, cold, armed with nameless instruments…_ he banished the intruding specter, forcibly clearing his imagination.

"And when did this torture come to an end?"

At the word _torture, _ Boon Dauggl raised one webbed hand in outrage. "Objection!" he shouted, indignant. "It has not been established that the medical procedures under consideration are to be defined as torture. We are here for the purpose of _determining_ the nature of my client's actions."

Zhuddi sighed and pointed a thick finger at the stoop-backed proecutor. "Upheld. Please constrain your language to the established facts, Mr. Sangu."

_Facts?_ The young Jedi raised his brows, lips threatening to curl into sardonic smile. _Focus, _ came the inevitable reminder from Qui-Gon.

The barrister bowed. "Let me repeat the question. When, Padawan Kenobi, did this experience come to an end?"

Obi-Wan flicked another glance at Zan Arbor, now openly leering at him. _Leering, hungrily, as she sought to tear the secrets of the Force from his body, wring them out of his very blood…_"It came to an end shortly before Doctor Arbor was able to inject the synth virus. Another Jedi team pursued us to Telos and effected an extraction. Doctor Arbor was arrested at that time."

He gripped the rail tighter, feeling sweat slide beneath his palms. _One moment, sinking into a stuporous despair, stripped of clothing, freedom, strength, the Force itself – the next, bundled like an infant against Qui-Gon's broad chest, miraculously saved…_ he still could not remember all that had transpired in the immediate aftermath. Ben To Li had assured him that this was natural, nothing to fret about… He exhaled, still feeling the attention of that one unknown presence riveted upon him with a quiet desperation.

Sangu rotated his pod to face the judge and jury panel squarely. "The prosecution presents Exhibit A, the mission report filed in the Jedi Temple by Padawan Kenobi seven days after his return to Coruscant after this ordeal." He paused as the electronic document appeared on the datamonitor of each jury member. "Also relevant to this point, Exhibit B, the full medical report made by Senior Healer Ben To Li, of the Jedi Order, pursuant to an examination of Padawan Kenobi immediately following the events spoken of. Please peruse them at your leisure; they verify and substantiate the testimony here presented by the witness. Potentially crippling or deadly procedures were performed on a forcibly restrained captive, whom, I wish to remind the court, was a _minor_ at the time."

Judge Zhuddi called for order several minutes later, when the hubbub had died away. The general audience and the holo-net cambots did not have access to the exhibit documents; an outcry for more details was raised and quashed by the judge's gavel.

"You may proceed, Mr. Sangu."

And proceed they did – through Tahl Uvain's initial distress call, the rescue mission launched in its wake, the Arbor Foundation's security measures, the existence of outside funding and a Director of operations to whom Arbor reported, Jedi suspicion of conspiracy, and then every detail of the mission report and the medical evidence painstakingly repeated and attested to. Exhibit C and D, the mission report and medical records relevant to Tahl Uvain, were then uploaded to the jury's monitors.

Obi-Wan stood at the railing of the witness pod, unmoving, reflecting that this grilling exceeded even the most thorough of Council reports, including those highly uncomfortable sessions in which the full gathering of masters undertook to critique and reprimand Qui-Gon Jinn for one of his many brilliant departures from protocol. Here, there was no Qui-Gon behind whom to stand, a silent but unfailingly loyal support to another's blithe malfeasance. Here, he stood alone, bombarded by a perpetual tide of others' thoughts and feelings, an avalanche of psychic energy descending in every direction, threatening to knock him from his perch and drown him in that inky dubiety below. The strain of shielding from so many at once was overwhelming; in another context he would simply have ridden upon the swell of emotion like a bird upon water, tasting it, perhaps comparing his perceptions with that of his mentor, using them to judge what his next action should be. But here, focus was all important. And the dark appetite behind so many of those prurient eyes was too _similar_ to Zan Arbor's grasping, prying gaze, too reminiscent of that which he was now forced ot regurgitate and swallow down again, and again, until he thought his gorge would rise with the next words to leave his throat. And yet it continued, on and on.

After several hours, Sangu finally ground to a halt, with a small and fleeting nod of apology to the young Jedi. "No further questions, your honor."

_Thank the merciful Force._ Obi-Wan sagged inwardly, forcing his shoulders back as they threatened to bend under the weight of relief, hands determinedly braced upon the railing rather than massaging his pounding temples and aching neck. His belly still squirmed uncomfortably beneath his ribs; he kept his gaze neutrally forward, teeth still gritted the wild influx of emotion and thought. _Master…_

_Peace. Just another moment. _

Zhuddi called for a recess, amid the clamor and chatter of the spectators. Sangu's pod hovered sedately away to the counsel table; the witness pod slowly withdrew toward the docking port adjacent to the lawyer's office. Obi-Wan turned his back upon the court, measured breaths keeping nausea and headache at bay. The pod locked into place; the door opened with a quite shush of pressure pistons; he stepped back over the threshold into the warmth of the interior chamber – and staggered forward gratefully into Qui-Gon's patient grip, a pair of familiar hands bracing both his shoulders.

"Come," the Jedi master advised. "Rest and gather your strength. You did very well."

"I need to meditate," the Padawan said, weary and hoarse from hours of interrogation. "My head is splitting."

"Sit down." The young Jedi obeyed without protest, sinking into one of the plush chairs and holding his aching head between his hands.

"Stars' end…"

"They've brought food. You should eat."

"No – I feel ill… _blast it.."_

The Jedi master settled on the broad armrest, mouth twisting ruefully. "This has hardly begun, young one. You should have delayed the migraine for at least another day."

Obi-Wan's answering snort was blackly humorous. "I'm sorry, master. Next time I shall abstain from headache until you give permission."

"Better," the tall man smiled, placing a hand on the back of his apprentice's neck and sending a soothing wave of energy through the Force, overriding the feeble resistance with which this gesture was initially met. "Defiance _is_ your foremost vice."

After a minute or so, Obi-Wan's hands fell away, and he slumped back against the chair's luxuriant cushions, face tilted up to regard Qui-Gon earnestly. "I learned from the master," he muttered, but his voice was so undergirded with pain that the older man withheld all further teasing.

"You are blocking out and shielding the thoughts and feelings of many hundred sentients," he observed. "That is unwise – you know better. Let them flow _through_ you. Every dam eventually breaks."

Obi-Wan's eyes drifted closed. "It's too distracting," he grumbled, a frown contracting his brows. Then, "Master… there is somebody in the court – not an enemy. Something else. It's strange."

Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, intuition leaping to the obvious conclusion. He laid one hand across the Padawans' brow, bridging the gap between them with the Force. He smoothed away the throbbing edges of the headache, the niggling concern over the unknown spectator, the heavy weight of weariness settling like clay silt at the bottom of the young Jedi's spirit. "Rest," he advised. "You will be called back to the stand for the cross-examination immediately after the recess. I'm sure Bune Dauggl can't wait to get his fleshy Nemoidian claws into you."

Obi-Wan grunted some incoherent string of assenting syllables, and slid over the edge of awareness into a light restorative trance. He sprawled elegantly in the overstuffed lounge chair, an infant secure in the arms of the Force that was the common parent of them all. Qui-Gon stayed where he was- tugging the hem of his cloak gently out from beneath his apprentice's shoulder - and kept vigil from within the Force's watchful bastion, as the brief respite trickled away into time's abyss and was lost to them.

A chime rang, summoning the court back to order; the camera showed jury and judge and litigators and the prisoner herself return to their places, the spectators murmur and rustle as they lighted upon their seats in eagerness for the cross-examination. Zhudii banged her gavel for order, and quiet fell upon the assembly.

Regretfully, Qui-Gon roused his Padawan. "It's time."

The young Jedi stood, pulling Feld Spruu's oversized cloak hood straight and grimly facing the interior door. His hand strayed toward his belt, where his confiscated 'saber ought to be, and then fell away in frustration, his eyes meeting the Jedi master's with a grieved and ironic lift of the brows.

"Just lovely," he groused, and then disappeared through the interior door, back into the waiting pod and the hushed legal arena.


	15. Chapter 15

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

Bune Dauggl guided his hover-pod in a predatory circle about the witness stand, the wide loop of a raptor cruising above its intended prey, his glassy reptilian eyes blinking up at the jury panel and the gathered audience with a coolly assessing light as he prepared himself for what promised to be a dramatic cross-examination.

"Where to begin, where to begin?" he lisped, rhetorically.

Obi-Wan, standing at the center of this prowling circuit, bit back the retort that sprung instantly to mind. _"If you are unsure how to commence your questioning Mister Dauggl, perhaps you should attend remedial law school?"_

Qui-Gon's irritation manifested as a hot flare in the Force; his student flinched, stamping out even the unspoken thought from his mind_. Focus. The true enemy and the true battle lie within._

The Nemoidian addressed the Padawan directly. "How long have you been a member of the Jedi Order?"

An irrelevant question, but Sangu raised no objection. Obi-Wan stirred, impatiently. "All my life, at least since I can remember."

"Ah…. and you are a Padawan, I understand?"

"Yes. Hence the title."

Judge Zhudii raised her brows and leaned back in her high chair.

The Nemoidian's mouth curved into a mirthless smile. "And upon attaining this rank, you made a vow- a sacred oath, I assume? A promise of loyalty and obedience to your Order, its precepts and Code, and the mandates of its Council?"

"Yes."

"And you live by this oath, to the utmost of your ability?"

"Yes."

"Have there ever been times, in the line of duty so defined, that you have been obliged to _lie _?"

Obi-Wan balked, aware that here was a fencing partner of cunning and treacherous intent, well matched to his own ability. He waited for Sangu to object, but the counsel for the defense still sat idly behind his table, not anticipating the obvious trap ahead.

The judge rapped her gavel. "The witness _will_ answer the question truthfully," she barked.

"Well, Padawan Kenobi? Have you ever been obliged to lie or to otherwise bend the truth in order to achieve some end deemed desirable to your Order's purposes?"

Exhale. Holding one's tongue was one thing; allowing such _sophistry_ free rein was another. "Forgive me - I would not dare claim any competency in such arts when faced with a true master. I must plead comparative ignorance of the skill."

A ripple of mingled outrage and amusement ran through the courtroom; the Nemoidian's nictitating membranes flashed across his eyes in acute vexation; Judge Zhudii's gavel banged a harsh note of reprimand. "The witness will refrain from additional comment, and will restrict himself to answering the question," she barked.

Dauggl smirked upward at the bench. "Thank you, your honor." He hovered to a standstill, an aloof distance from the witness pod. "You are a very clever young man, Padawan Kenobi, am I right?"

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. "I would not make such a prideful claim; but I am sure it might appear so to one of markedly inferior abilities."

The Nemoidian hissed, fleshy mouth crinkling into a jagged and rumpled scowl.

The Padawan winced under the subliminal mental pressure of Qui-Gon's disapproval. Fine. He would desist. It had been nothing more than a saber flourish, a mere warning to the defense attorney that here was no fool to be played like a zither.

"I think the jury would agree that you demonstrate a quick wit, and with that quality most often comes cunning intelligence and a very active imagination." Another lazy perambulation of the courtroom's perimeter. The barrister's hat teetered comically upon its wearer's head, the elaborate black felt scrollwork waving gently with the reptilian's undulating head. "Qualities your Order highly esteems, yes?"

"The Jedi Order holds in highest esteem the qualities of self-discipline, compassion, and honor," the Padawan levelly replied. "You may have heard rumor of them."

The judge's gavel again rapped out a warning. "The witness _will_ restrict himself to answering the question," she growled. "Am I understood?" She peered critically at the young Jedi.

"I understand, your honor."

Dauggl's noseless face rumpled in smug triumph. "Let us continue," he suggested, in his singularly oily wheeze. "The mission report – I refer to Exhibit A, ladies and gentlebeings of the jury – was composed by yourself – with no assistance from a supervisor or other member of your Order?"

Obi-Wan watched the barrister warily, mentally circling in a defensive pattern. He could sense a strike about to be landed. The question was, where? "Yes."

"And you wrote this document seven days after returning from Telos, relying on your memory of what transpired while you were Doctor Arbor's guest?"

"No."

The Nemoidian scowled, hovering his pod nearer and leaning over its parapet. "No – you did not base it on memory, but rather on imagination?"

Obi-Wan's brows rose, blandly. "I did not base it on conjecture or recollection of being Doctor Arbor's _guest_… since I was never any such thing but only her prisoner."

The litigator waved this away with a mottled hand. "You expect us to believe this detailed and extensive account of your experiences is both accurate and reliable?"

"I expect any reasonable and sane person to believe it, yes."

Zhudii cleared her throat. Sighing, Obi-Wan made a short bow. How was he supposed to defend the truth when he was not only forbidden to make any offensive moves but also deprived of every opportunity to block, parry, or disarm? This left only endless evasion and repetition, a poor dueling strategy at best. He rebuffed Qui-Gon's next attempt at unspoken counsel – this was _his_ battle, and he would see it through to the bitter end.

A Jedi finishes what he starts.

Meanwhile, the Nemoidian had directed the jury's attention to the medical records. "As you will note, Exhibit B clearly states that these were three separate sedative chemical compounds circulating in the witness' bloodstream upon his removal from the Telosian facility. Even after a hyperspace journey from Telos to Coruscant, the medical examiner reports that the witness was disoriented, confused, emotionally labile, and exhibiting anxiety symptoms related to sustained Force suppression."

Obi-Wan ground his teeth. He had already attested to the verity of BenTo Li's statements; his own intuition supplied him with a good guess where Dauggl was heading with this.

The defense attorney approached the center of the courtroom again. "Padawan Kenobi," he drawled, "You have affirmed the reliability of the medical records. You _were_ disoriented, confused, and anxious at the time of the report; and it stands to reason, since these drugs take two to four days to purge completely, that you also were in the same condition during your stay with Doctor Arbor."

The trap gaped wide. The young Jedi deliberately relaxed his hands. "I was."

Prominent eyes bulging further with delight, the lawyer ruthlessly drove home his point. "If you were confused, disoriented, and anxious, then how can you have any clear, reliable, and trustworthy recollection of what happened to you?"

A loud murmuring which Zhudii did not bother to suppress. Obi-Wan shifted impatiently. "I was able to later isolate and clarify my recollection through a simple meditative technique. The testimony given in the mission report is complete and accurate." Even as the words left his mouth, he knew that truth here was a flimsy shield, a worthless weapon. And yet he was sworn to employ no other, constrained to a combat in which he was allowed no fair odds.

The Nemoidian feigned surprise. "So now we must accept evidence that derives from a mystical trance state?" A forced chuckle. "There is no legal provision for testimony collected when the witness is in an _altered_ state of consciousness."

"Objection, your honor!" Sangu finally spoke up. "The Jedi and their unique abilities have been respected and honored by the Republic for a thousand generations! It is intolerable to compare their practices to that of less reputable undertakings!"

Dauggl pressed a webbed hand to his chest, crumpling his sumptuous robes. "I have the _greatest_ respect for the Jedi Order," he simpered. "I merely point out that there is no _legal_ basis for incorporating such evidence."

Zhuddi's eyes tracked back and forth between the two litigators. "Overruled," she decided. "Proceed, Mr. Dauggl."

The lawyer straightened his gown and made another contemplative circle, spiraling in toward the witness pod again. "Tell us again the nature of your business on Ossk 88 at the Arbor Foundation?"

Obi-Wan clenched his jaw. He had a bad feeling about this…

_Do not center on your anxieties._ Qui-Gon's unsolicited advice elicited a snort. Yes. Such a simple matter of choice… "I accompanied a Jedi team sent to infiltrate the research foundation and to apprehend Jenna Zan Arbor if possible."

"Apprehend?" the Nemoidian inquired, cagily. "On what authority? On what grounds?"

"By express mandate of the Jedi Council, in order to forestall further crimes and interrogate Doctor Arbor regarding her connections."

Dauggl sneered. "Doctor Arbor had no knowledge of your intentions, or your arrival?"

"Correct. It was a clandestine mission, with the purpose of arresting her."

"You entered Arbor Foundation unexpectedly, and overpowered the security forces stationed there?"

"Yes. That is routine on such a mission."

"Of course," the Nemoidian purred. "So you forced entry into a private corporate facility? Do Jedi have the right to violate and trespass in such a fashion?"

Obi-Wan shifted, testily. "As you already know, we do. In cases of criminal arrest – or diplomatic necessity."

Dauggl paused dramatically. "But Ossk 88 is outside Republic jurisdiction. It is an unincorporated system, and _legally_ outside the parameters of such a clause. Your entry into Arbor Foundation would be considered an act of trespass, would it not, if you had no legal right to enforce Republic law?"

Now they were on delicate ground. The Padawan trod carefully, too well aware of the fine line between privilege and abuse the Council had walked in their decision. "This was not a peacekeeping mission, but an internal Jedi affair."

Dauggl snorted contemptuously. "And what could Doctor Arbor, who was outside Republic boundaries, have to do with an internal affair of the Order? What is the connection?"

The young Jedi swallowed. The Nemoidian circled expectantly, savoring the hesitancy in his interlocutor's expression and posture. But there was no escape, not now, not in these conditions. "Our actions were undertaken in response to Doctor Arbor's previous capture and torture of Jedi Master Tahl Uvain." There. He had said it. The court fell into a hushed silence.

The litigator smirked, his mouth crumpling into a sinuous line of victory. "And under what auspices did Master Uvain meet Doctor Arbor? Was she also acting on express mandate of the Jedi Coucnil?"

Ice cascaded down Obi-Wan's back. A muscle in his jaw leapt. Qui-Gon had started this…. Tahl had left to please him, to take his defiance upon her own shoulders…. "She was not," he choked out.

"No?…. By direct order of the Chancellor or Senate, then?"

_Oh Force. _"No."

The Nemoidian pressed forward without mercy. "On what initiative was she acting, then?"

"Her own," Obi-Wan murmured, color rising into his cheeks, on behalf of Tahl, of Qui-Gon, of the Order. Defiance and disobedience had smeared this trail with blood, from the very outset. Tahl had signed her own death warrant and besmirched her honor and that of them all, by her act of blind loyalty to Qui-Gon's rebellion. "She was pursuing a personal quest."

"Then this is not technically an internal Jedi affair, is it?" the lawyer triumphed. "Nor were any of Arbor Foundation's activities or research projects within Republic jurisdiction."

A slip. Obi-Wan moved in, Tahl's haggard face swimming before his eyes. "It certainly is, so far as it concerns Republic citizens. Neither Master Uvain nor I consented to the treatment we received at Jenna Zan Arbor's hands. Master Uvain will soon _die _ of the damage inflicted upon her!"

Bune Dauggl leered. "So this is a matter of revenge?"

The word dropped from his lipless mouth like poison, like the toxic coating on a sharp spine. _Justice,_ Obi_Wan protested inwardly, his very heart crying out for retribution, for Zan Arbor's _punishment, _ for her _demise._ He gripped the rail, fighting down the surge of wrath and grief. "No. It is a simple matter of justice."

"Let us discuss something entirely different," the Nemoidian calmly suggested. "You stated that Doctor Arbor explained her researches to you. What was the aim of these purported experiments you described in your famous mission report?"

"She was conducting research in behavioral conditioning of sentient beings, as well as intensive research on midichlorians."

The lawyer rubbed his hands together. "Hm. And what are midichlorians? I do not think many citizens of the republic know anything about this concept."

Obi-Wan's pulse drummed in his veins. "They are a microscopic life form found in high concentration in the blood of Force-sensitives. They are a conduit or means through which the Force makes itself felt as a somatic and instinctual actuality in our lives."

Dauggl waited for this to sink in. "And if I wanted to know more about this fascinating concept, I could perhaps refer to the Jedi Temple? Public records and information would be made widely available?"

The young Jedi squirmed. _Blast it!_ Had he been allowed from the outset to put Dauggl in his place – somewhere below the lowest of the nine hells – they would not be mired in this logical and rhetorical trap. Duty bid him answer meekly, without resistance, without complaint – and now what? He would obey, but Force forgive him if it was a bitter kind of submission. "No, it would not. Such information is potentially dangerous and is carefully guarded. It concerns Jedi and knowledge of the Force that does not concern the galaxy at large, and its wide dissemination would bring little benefit and wide misunderstanding and abuse." _As evidenced by the vile witch standing before you._

"And how do you know that such information would prove dangerous in the hands of one not properly indoctrinated by your Order?"

The Padawan's simmering temper threatened to boil over. His hands clenched hard about the rail, in lieu of a saber's hilt. "Is not the abuse inflicted upon innocents by Doctor Arbor sufficient proof? She herself stated her intentions to seize power over life and the Force itself!"

"So you say," the reptilian wheezed. "But we have already established that your testimony is unreliable and your motives suspect."

"Tahl Uvain is at death's door!" the young Jedi objected, hotly. "Thanks to Zan Arbor!"

Obi-Wan bucked away from Qui-Gon's sharp and repeated commands to control himself, dampening their bond and raising mental shields.

"So your Order would have us believe," Dauggl simpered. "Based on the delusion and prejudice of a professional liar and manipulator who can barely even be called a _man."_

_"Objection!"_ Sangu hollered, in vain.

"How is this basis for prosecution, I ask you?" the Nemoidian asked the court in general, over the gavel's thunderous protest.

"Objection, your honor!"

"It seems more than sufficient basis for the _defense,"_ Obi-Wan snarled, abandoning all restraint.

_Padawan!_ Qui-Gon broke through fortified mental barriers, eliciting a gasp of pain from his apprentice. _The Council and I expect better!_

"Order!" the judge banged and hollered until the uproarious reaction to these impassioned words subsided. . "The witness will restrain himself, unless he wishes to be declared in contempt of court!"

Jaw clenched, Obi-Wan kept his attention trained upon the slimy litigator and his grotesque headwear, the twisted sculpture sitting atop the reptilian's head like some gargoyle upon a blasphemous temple's roof. How much more coudl he be expected to bear?

The Nemoidian's glazed pupils dilated into drunken zig-zags. "I think we have heard enough for now," he lisped, silky voice thrumming with contained glee. "No further questions at this time, your honor."

"Order! Order!" Judge Zhudii's voice shrilled against the high rafters, echoed over the amplifier sytem. The bailiff called for order, too, horned head clearly visible over the rim of his smaller hover-pod as he zoomed around the perimeter of the wide space.

Obi-Wan pushed Qui-Gon's restraining influence away with a colossal effort, snapping shields back onto place with a desperate ferocity. _No!_ He was _sick_ to kriffing death of _restraint._ Of impotent passivity. Of obedient, slavish, spineless _acceptance _ of death and injustice and lies and cruelty and the impugning of honor and goodness, in the name of what? Of _what?_

He barely heard Zhudii's declaration that the Court was issuing another subpoena, this time demanding the relevant Council meeting privy records, and an expert Jedi witness to give testimony regarding midichlorians and the Temple's disclosure policy regarding them. He barely heard the judge call for a day-long adjournment to accommodate this request and to give the jury sufficient time to examine he heard was the martial beat of his own blood in his veins, the hot rush of disbelief and outrage.

When the pod docked again at the interior entrance, he stormed through the door like an arctic wind, the Force alight with cold actinic fire, his face hardened into stony lines, icy stillness.

Qui-Gon stood in his path, an unyielding and formidable barricade. The tall man's blue eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, grasping his apprentice by both shoulders – perhaps a trifle too hard, fingers digging into taut muscle with a power suggestive of buried accusation, of severe disappointment.

The young Jedi stiffened, battle-ready; adamantine walls refused the master's ungentle psychic probing.

"Lower your shields. Such disrespect ill becomes you, young one."

"No." A breath: rise and fall, regret and vital rebellion. "…master."

One of Qui-Gon's brows shot upward, but the cold authority did not leave his eyes. "_Now_." Warning thrummed in the tone; the consequence of further defiance would be serious. "Padawan, hear me."

The silence was deafening. They both knew the Jedi master _could_ force compliance, likely bringing his apprentice to his knees in pain - and that such would be merited reprisal for outright disobedience. The younger man's eyes flashed with challenge, almost inviting the conflict.

But Qui-Gon turned away. "I will not, and you insult me by laying such temptation in my path." He strode for the door, without another word, nor a backward glance, the Force churning in his wake, full of tempestuous misgivings.

Head down, angry moisture glossing his eyes before he fiercely blinked it away, Obi-Wan followed behind, keeping three paces back and to the left, the resentful shadow of a passing thundercloud.


	16. Chapter 16

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 16**

Outside the courthouse – 'sabers returned to their keeping by the security officers, their vehicle waiting at the base of the pedestrian plaza below the stairwell – the Jedi encountered a hungry mob composed of holonet reporters, vociferous protestors, and a goodly portion of the audience, those present for the trial still disgorging themselves from the building's front like spilled entrails.

And – Force help him – there, at the edge of the crowd, where they must perforce walk by at arm's length: the very woman Qui-Gon had spoken with in the Temple not two days hence. The very _last_ complication they needed to contend with at this juncture. The tall Jedi dropped back a pace, seized Obi-Wan about the upper arm without explanation, and steered his Padawan, as though captive, along the balustrade leading to the forecourt's outer wall.

He felt the flash of resentment strike against his own shields, but he had no mind to offer justification – nor should he have to. Had he been assured of instant obedience, as was appropriate and needful, he would not have resorted to physical compulsion; as things stood, his grasp was perhaps a trifle too indicative of his inner state to qualify as an expression of Jedi calm.

They reached the end of the stone railing, followed by a few insidious cam-bots. The Temple vehicle discreetly hovered away from its initial position and curved round the plaza toward their new trajectory, the pilot astutely guessing the purpose of their detour.

"Jump," Qui-Gon barked, leading the way.

It was only a six or seven meter drop into the air-car's passenger seats. Obi-Wan leapt down behind him, brown cloak billowing out in the air, and landed with a Force-muffled thump. They sat, and the vehicle whizzed away, leaving the disappointed crowd and the odious courthouse far behind.

Qui-Gon stretched his legs out as far as the cramped back seat space would permit. Obi-Wan lifted his hood and receded into cowled shadow, face invisible behind the thick folds of cloth, inner self buried deep in the Force, all but obscured.

The tall man welcomed the respite from troublesome conversation, breathing out the skimmings of his irritation into the Living Force, only to discover that profound unrest still lay beneath. He glanced sideways at his student, shock and disappointment warring for dominance. He had taken the boy to negotiating tables where equally vitriolic exchanges had been made, words like liquid fire bandied by the partisan groups, and yet the Padawan had kept a remarkably level head. What was the _matter_ with him now?

And the emotional outbursts – before the entire court, in explicit defiance of the Council's strictest warnings – did the young fool _wish_ to be formally censured and disciplined? When had he _ever_ failed a test put before him, let alone so dramatically? What had possessed him?

For a sickening moment, he remembered Xanatos' sudden, irreversible plunge into self-destruction, the raw amazement with which he, Qui-Gon, had witnessed the extinction of a star that had hitherto occupied the central place in his private constellation of duty and affection. His heart clenched beneath his ribs, the luminaries in his inner heavens falling one after another into oblivion, leaving him in the deadened reaches of night. Where had he gone wrong?

His perturbation must have leaked past even his inviolable mental shields, for Obi-Wan abruptly turned his head, alarm outshining even his own smoldering resentment. An unspoken question hung between them, a faint echo of some other time, as recent as this morning, as long forgotten as childhood.

He did not meet his apprentice's searching gaze. It was not _his_ place to mend the breach. Let pride and anger find their own way out of the strangling noose of silence – at this moment, he had no counsel nor any reassurance to offer.

They flew on in wordless dissonance, each locked in the acrid fortress of his own thoughts.

* * *

Only when they had been safely deposited inside the Temple docking bay did Qui-Gon deign to break the oppressive silence. "Obi-Wan," he said, the familiar syllables taking on an edge of rebuke.

His apprentice looked up at him, defenses still drawn tight around his mind, an impenetrable barrier woven of barbed inscrutability, a thorny wall refusing any intrusion upon its domain. The hard line of the Padawan's mouth, the set of his chin and his stubborn posture all screamed bitter defiance; but those eyes – always treacherous, windows into the soul – proclaimed deepest hurt instead.

Still, there was no _reasoning_ with the boy in this frame of mind –and no question of making a _scene_ here in the Temple's public hangar. Qui-Gon shifted, impatient. "I am going to see Master Tahl," he proclaimed, watching his Padawan slacken his guard the minutest amount, his expression soften with something bordering on unbecoming _need._

The Jedi master almost stayed his hand. Almost. "You will proceed directly back to quarters and remain there until my return," he ordered, steeling his heart against its own objections.

If Obi-Wan so much as flinched, it was perceptible only in the Force.

"She would not be honored by your breach of conduct on her behalf," the tall man continued, driving the point home. "You may wish to reflect upon this."

The young Jedi drew in a single shuddering breath, made a deep and icily courteous bow, and stalked away out the bay interior entrance at an impressively staid gait, the very air seeming to shimmer into heaviness about him, an invisible precipitation of pain falling in the trembling Force.

Qui-Gon exhaled. Cursing himself for his cruelty, and then cursing himself for his _attachment,_ and then cursing Jenna Zan Arbor for ever taking her first misbegotten breath, he left the cool cavern of the docking port in much the same mood as his apprentice, only headed in the opposite direction.

* * *

She lay deathly still in the dark room, shrouded by the imminence of a wisdom surpassing any in this life.

Qui-Gon approached gently, flames already licking at the piled kindling about his heart, the first tendrils of fragrant incensed smoke rising into the gloom-laden Force.

"Tahl." He raised her limp hand to his lips, and replaced it upon the bone-bleached coverlet. Her once luminous eyes opened, cracking apart to reveal empty craters where once life had pooled.

"Qui."

He leaned closer.

"Don't let me… die in this bed." She fell silent, gathering strength for further speech. "Not like this."

Searing fire clawed higher, filling his chest. His knees met the polished floor, his hair spilling like tears over her arm and chest, frail vessels almost depleted of the light they once bore. His promise poured silently into the Force.

Tahl's fingers twined in his silvering mane. Too weary to form words, her question whispered against his mind, gossamer-fine.

He shook his head. "It did not go well."

And then the next inevitable query, another soundless plea.

"He's…. I sent him back to quarters. He dishonored himself today – I am sorely disappointed." His shoulders tautened, the weight of this extra grief threatening to undo him. "The last time I dealt with such… _anger,_ it was –"

He stopped when her grip tightened painfully in his hair, threatening to tear strands from the sensitive area behind his ear. Tahl's frantic objection brought his breath up short.

"No," she sighed, eyes closed. "Not Xan… you s_tupid barve."_ And here she ended, her resources exhausted, her fingers slackening as she sank back into a stuporous haze.

He stayed until BenTo Li stepped in on one of his rounds and shooed him away with no very genteel deployment of idiom, a courtesy which he returned in equal measure and kind before stalking out of the healing Halls and away – though he left the better part of himself behind.

* * *

The door chime sounded. And again, and again. The visitor even went so far as to pound on the door, in a most unbecoming fashion.

"Obi! Let me in, you gundark!"

Bant Eerin had a way of winning arguments in this fashion; he would rather accede to her irksome request than allow her to publicly shame both of them by _shouting_ in the residential wing corridor. He waved open the portal with a tart gesture, bringing his Mon Calamari friend half-stumbling over the threshold.

She recovered her balance and composure quickly enough, and allowed the heavy panel to slide closed behind her. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" she demanded.

He grunted, waving the lights to quarter power and slitting his eyes against the painful onslaught of radiance. "Bant," he whispered. "This is not a good time. Master Jinn –"

"I saw him in the healers' ward," she interrupted, dropping something on the floor and crouching down beside his meditation cushion. Her long healer's tunic brushed the polished floor with the faintest of whispers. "He told me you were here, when I asked… and I could sort of tell…"She trailed off, one webbed hand touching his shoulder tentatively.

He inhaled, slowly. Foolishly hoping that she would overlook his obvious discomfort.

"Master Li sent me here expressly," Bant told him. "This is business. You don't have to ignore me."

He cracked open his eyelids and risked a sideways glance at her, light smearing and shattering into spectral bands about her round face, her eyes slowly blinking with concern. "I would not – Bant, it's not –"

"Master Li said he watched the public holo-broadcast of the trial today," she pushed on. "He said you might need some soothing."

Obi-Wan snorted, bitterly. "Convey my thanks to him. I just need to meditate, Bant. Thank you for coming. I _am_ glad to see you. Perhaps later…"

But the young Mon Cal did not take the hint. "He said that if you _prove to be obstreperous, _then he and Parr Acel will come up here personally and force the issue. You're better off with me."

He raised a hand to his throbbing temple and massaged gently. "You're making it worse, Bant. Really. I'll be fine – it was just a …_trying_ day." His mouth twitched.

"You're incorrigible." Bant _tsk'ed_ audibly and rummaged about in her bag. "I've got a conventional painkiller with me – if you won't let me help you with the Force, maybe…?"

"Blast it, Bant! I'm _fine!"_

Even Bant Eerin's patience had a limit. She shot to her feet, towering over him where he sat cross-legged upon the low cushion. "You're so _rude_ when you're upset!" she snapped.

"I am not upset!"

"Yes, you are, and you're a terrible liar, too!"

His eyes flew open, glaring at her. "I've heard _that_ enough times for one day!" he growled, surging to his own feet and shouldering past her on the way to his own bedroom. He clutched the doorframe for support as he passed inside, turning his head over one shoulder. "I'm sorry – please, just leave."

She stormed in after him, heedless of his privacy.

He flopped onto his disheveled sleep mattress in exasperation, gritting his teeth as the headache's somber dirge multiplied into an obliterating cacophony behind his temples. _"For the love of the Force…!"_ He measured his breaths carefully, fingers curling into the rumpled bed covering.

The Mon Cal dropped down on the mattress' edge. "I'll leave when I'm satisfied you're fine." She fished a small hypo out of its pouch and pressed it up against his exposed neck with all the unsympathetic efficiency of a nerf-wrangler.

He went rigid and rolled half away with a feral snarl.

Bant stared and then flushed a dusky hue, globular silver eyes widening in horrified realization. "Oh! I'm sorry! I never thought – Obi! Don't be angry – it's completely different- oh I'm sorry, it wasn't supposed to remind you, I wasn't thinking." Her tumbling words vied with one another for his attention, remorse and concern brimming into her quavering voice.

He relaxed, as a dulling haze blunted the knifing edge of the migraine, the burning brand of his thoughts. "Bant," he murmured, reaching out to reassure her. "Don't." Bone-weary but no longer certain why, he watched her luminous eyes swell with unshed affection, the forbidden elixir standing in glossy droplets along their wide, lashless edges, until his own eyelids were too heavy to hold open.

When he started shivering, she pulled the blanket over him. The last thing he remembered was the gentle tread of her feet as she quietly withdrew, her peculiar salty scent lingering ephemerally in her wake.

* * *

Those who wander without purpose are liable to meander into a dead end at the heart of their own labyrinth; and so, Qui-Gon was in no way surprised when the Force drove his aimless and distracted steps straight to the monster's lair at the center of the maze.

His disturbed perambulation about the Temple corridors brought him, by the mysterious ways and purposes of that which bound all things together, to a hall where Yoda lay in wait for him, both gnarled and clawed hands resting atop his twisted gimer stick with a martial determination.

"Qui-Gon," the ancient green troll snorted, waving the stubbly cane at the tall Jedi master. "Speak now we shall."

Eight centuries of authority had eroded the clear edges of the Grand Master's dictates into a time-worn uniformity: invitation, suggestion, advice, command – these were no longer distinguishable in his lexicon. Qui-Gon fell into step beside the diminutive Jedi, slowing his own ground-eating stride to a comparative crawl. Yoda shuffled deliberately beside him, affecting his stooped and arthritic gait more pointedly than ever.

"You aren't fooling anyone, master," the tall man pointed out, peevishly. "I _saw_ you wallop Cin Drallig in the dojo last month."

"Stiff are my joints," the ancient one testily insisted. "Complain not at me until reach this age you do. Cumbersome, does gross matter become. Burden to be borne, no longer a willing vessel."

They rounded a corner, the next hall edged by windows opaque with night. "Your Padawan," the diminutive Jedi grunted, dispensing with the small talk, such as it had been. "Struggled today. Much loss of control. Disappointed, Master Windu was."

Qui-Gon's stride unconsciously lengthened. "I, too, was disappointed."

Yoda's stick clacked pertly against the polished tiles. "Hmph. Yes, but a wager against me you did not have." He stumped onward, placidly.

The tall master looked awry at the revered teacher of countless generations. Yoda's sense of humor was even more warped and convoluted than Obi-Wan's – and that was saying something. "I did not find his performance in any way amusing," he tartly replied.

A low chuckle. "Neither did Master Windu. Lost the bet he did."

"Master…" They descended a flight of shallow steps, flanked by graceful columns. To one side, a statue of the historic Jedi martyr Miell Shu-Yo gazed up at a distant skylight from whence, in daytime, a shaft of purest radiance would fall upon his scarred bronzium face, illumine the heavy sculptured chains about his feet. "His shortcoming is my own. I have failed to teach him self-control and custody of the emotions."

But Yoda did not seem impressed by this confession. "Hm? Forget his past achievements you do. Prudent counsel and wise action: both your apprentice has shown. Well versed in patience and forbearing. Learned, and learned well of you he has."

Aggravated, Qui-Gon pressed his mouth in to thin line. "How can you say that, when he so spectacularly demonstrated his immaturity today?"

He regretted the words even as they left his lips, but Yoda struck like an adder, leaving no time for a defensive parry. "Learned well from you, he has. Attachment, Master Qui-Gon. Cloud your judgment it does; cloud also your student's. _Personal_ is this trial to him, and therefore at his heart does it strike. A devoted pupil he is, passionate and reckless like his master."

The insult cut both ways. "I am flattered."

But Yoda only snorted and moved onward, humped back surmounted by a rumpled hood and a corona of white wisps. "Much to learn, you both have. Blame not the boy for not yet being a man; slow to mature is great potential."

"I do not follow your meaning," Qui-Gon hedged, annoyance trickling in his veins.

Yoda traced a circle with the end of his stick, following the pattern of the inlaid marble. "Growth in the Force – balance this demands. Balance of heart, mind, body. Stronger feelings, deeper thoughts- take longer to integrate these do. More guidance, more mistakes to learn from. Glad you should be that Obi-Wan stumbles- a sign of greatness this is."

Seldom did the Grand Master speak so openly in praise of any of them – but in his present mood, Qui-Gon was ill-inclined to lapse into prideful complacency. "The Order could have benefited from a bit more _precocity_ today," he grumbled.

The ancient master ignored his sullen tone. "Rest on the shoulders of one Padawan, the fate of the galaxy does not," he retorted.

"If you say so, master. The ways of the Force _are_ mysterious."

Yoda ploughed onward, indefatigable in his pontificating role. "Precocious, I trust not. Premature bloom, premature rot. Like fly-trap is early perfection: exotic, beautiful, alluring. Disguise for rotten insdes. No, precocious we need not. Such a one was your poor Lost apprentice. Fell into this trap you did, before."

Tahl's words rang in his ears. "Obi-Wan is not Xanatos," the tall man snapped, resentful.

Yoda's ears rose, a triumphant smirk wrinkling his wizened face. "Exactly!" The gimer stick hit the floor with a deafening crack. "Let not your _impatience _hammer _this _young one till he bends."

The rebuke stung; the specter of past failure rose and pointed an accusing finger at the present; Qui-Gon scowled deeply, pacing like an angry colwar beside its dwarfish tamer. "I hear your words, my master," he growled, taking his leave of Yoda and his too-keen insight at the next juncture, with mingled relief and regret.

He returned to his own quarters, vexedly picking Feld Spruu's cloak off the meditation cushion where his apprentice had thoughtlessly discarded it. He stood for a while in the doorframe of Obi-Wan's small room, watching the Padawan sleep curled in a tight ball, learner's braid dangling over the edge of his sleep mat – and then returned to the balcony, where he might wait for long night to be swallowed in the grace of dawn, and hope that the Living Force might fill the aching fissures in his lost serenity.

It was a long and fruitless vigil.


	17. Chapter 17

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

The Jedi Temple was equipped with abundant practice rooms, fencing salles, and open arenas, its dojo level a sanctuary dedicated to the cultivation of vital combat skills, the development of grace, strength, and poise, and –through the difficult and rarefied art of meditation-in-motion - deep contemplation of the Force's sublime mysteries. On this particular morning it was clear that Obi-Wan Kenobi had been diligently and continuously contemplating these mysteries from sixth hour until well nigh on the ninth, until he was so drunk on adrenaline and the Force that he did not notice the small crowd of admirers gathered in the observation balcony to witness his truly astonishing demonstration of double-bladed defensive technique against three separate training remotes set on high power.

The blindfold doubtless did not help in this regard.

Tucked in the far corner, one elegant hand resting idly upon the curved balustrade while the other stroked thoughtfully at his severely trimmed silver beard, Jedi Master Yan Dooku reflected that he had returned from a most unfulfilling and needless mission only to find something much more intriguing right here in the bosom of the Temple. Qui-Gon's young Padawan was coming along _very_ nicely – indeed, the boy was facing off against his imaginary adversaries with a cunning and grace suggestive of a _very dangerous man._ Such originality in saber play was, he had publicly lamented in years gone by, a thing of the past, a virtue relegated to a more civilized age. And yet here, before his astounded eyes, a marvel bloomed – the first unfolding petals of prodigious future talent like the rarest spring flower amid a field of indifferent grey snow.

What made it even better was this fact: Qui-Gon Jinn did not _believe_ in such ostentatious variation upon the pure forms.

Of course, neither did Dooku.

Excusing himself with a few courteously murmured words, he made his way down to the lower level salle entrances, and inserted himself into the middle of the Padawan's play – or practice – session with the confident aplomb of one accustomed to holding superior rank. At his appearance, the droids automatically deactivated, a safety feature programmed into all the standard remotes.

"Master Dooku!"

The older man acknowledged the bow with a nod. " I see you have taken up a new discipline," he drawled, ambling forward. "I am curious to know what reason Qui-Gon gave you for pursuing such a course of study?"

Kenobi's minute stiffening of posture eyes told the whole tale; Dooku raised his brows and pretended not to have noticed. "Or is this a _personal_ interest?" he inquired.

The young Jedi blushed violently. Somebody, someday, would have to teach him to control that involuntary response. It betrayed too much.

"It is merely a theoretical pursuit," Kenobi asserted. "While I am recovering from an injury." His glittering eyes bespoke a willingness to defend the patent untruth, to excuse his egregious departure from his mentor's guidelines.

"I see," the Jedi master murmured, impressed and surprised.. "Far be it from me to interrupt such scholarly devotion. For such a private avocation, your studies have certainly created a …spectacle." He nodded his head upward, at the crowded balcony.

Kenobi frowned.

"Perhaps you would like to escape the center of attention, hm?" Dooku continued, watching his interlocutor carefully. He had, naturally, watched the holo-footage of yesterday's trial with great interest.

A wry half smile. "Yes. Rather."

"Then I wonder if you might assist me in the Archives. I am compiling a mission report and I have need of your keen memory."

Off balance, Kenobi blinked once and then warily dipped his head. "Of course, master. It would be my honor. I need a moment to wash up…"

"Yes." Wringing wet tunics and hair bristled with perspiration would not do. Dooku waved him away to the shower rooms, noting that the boy left his battered _shoto _blade on the training weapon racks as he departed.

Perhaps it was nothing but an extra-curricular hobby, after all.

But he still felt that the Force meant it as an omen.

* * *

Qui-Gon had left the Temple early, on business of his own, neither pausing to bid his apprentice good morning nor to give detailed instructions for the day. As an afterthought, he left a curt message on the Padawan's comlink, directing the young Jedi to spend his entire morning in meditation and then to use good judgment in the disposition of his remaining free time. The Jedi master had no stomach to engage his student at any less cursory level of exchange; bare civility would suffice for them until he, or Obi-Wan, or the pair of them, had released all unbecoming emotion into the Force.

Toward that end, Qui-Gon had decided to expend his nervous energy upon a more fruitful task than intensive introspection, leaving that drudgery of the spirit to its rightful master – his apprentice. He preferred _action, _as direct as possible.

And so he steered his course directly for Coruscant's seedy underlevels and the _jargul_ den Dexter Jettster had described. It took the better part of the morning to travel – undetected – into the Rosshka district on the city-planet's far side, and a good deal of bribing and wheedling among the local taverns and disreputable houses of business to find out just where in the filthy and Byzantine bowels of the Deeps he might find such a venue.

Eventually his inquiries led him to a dank alley on level 156 – a wide arcade that had in fact once been a main sewer conduit in centuries gone by, the rounded walls of the pedestrian tunnel connecting shops and residences a testament to the corrosive power of time and duracrete slugs. Buttressed and reinforced by a sloppy medley of industrial adhesives and welded girders, the long wormhole seemed ready to collapse upon itself at any moment. Echoes of its bustling inner life carried up from the dim-lit reaches ahead, moans issuing from an endless throat, one so far beneath Coruscant's surface that it existed in a realm of perpetual twilight.

The Jedi master's boots slogged through acrid puddles, sending scavenging _things _ scuttling off in every direction. He passed entrance after entrance, each adorned with a pulsing holo-sign or marquee declaring the nature of its business. Drifters and loiterers stared at him as he passed, face well hidden in the depths of his cowl, but non barred his path, his ambient impalpable sense of power and his sheer height and breadth serving as sufficient warnings against brash action.

And then he found it. There were no windows, and only a single barred door. But above this forbidding portal was set a new and garish holo-board, welcoming guests into Jar-Heeb's Garden of Contemplation in several of the more commonly spoken languages in the intergalactic community. An animated jargul tree in the holobaord's background danced and swayed in rhythm to hypnotic music – and then morphed in quick succession into a Twi'Lek dancing girl, a horned gundark, a fanciful starship, and then a colorful explosion of fireworks before resuming its wonted shape, only to loop through the suggestive panoply of images again.

With a soft snort at the psychedelic mutations of the establishment's mascot, the Jedi master bypassed the inset security and locking feaures on the heavy outer door and entered into a dark hallway. Several meters down this narrow passage, the walls gave way to a vast warehouse or open space, one full of a soporific and heady vegetable scent: the sap of the _jargul_ tree. It was difficult to see anything in the gloom; but Qui-Gon could make out separate grottos cordoned off by decorative statuary and a meandering web of groomed paths. Beneath many of the drooping trees slept the limp and bundled forms of sentients, every one of them – to borrow Dexter Jettster's turn of phrase "high as a starcruiser."

A simple purgative technique allowed the tall man to make his way through the hazy orchard unaffected by the potent substance hanging thick in the air, mingled pollen and efflux of the exotic imported trees. Part of him was glad he had not chosen to bring Obi-Wan along on this misadventure; another part of him wistfully reflected that at _this_ juncture the young Jedi would have muttered that the "garden of contemplation" was more appropriately termed a jungle of dark dreams, and then announced that he had a bad feeling about this, and then impertinently inquired whether this is what Qui-Gon meant by attending to the Living Force more carefully?

"We're closed. Can't you read?"

He found his fond reverie interrupted by the proprietor's vexed remonstrance.

"I think you are open for me," he replied, allowing his cloak to fall aside just far enough to reveal the gleaming 'saber's hilt at his belt.

The squat humanoid unfolded his arms and rolled his eyes heavenward – form this depth in the underlevels, a very great distance indeed. "Holy mother of farking Tujunga. Jedi." He waved his unwanted guest forward to a second chamber situated behind the first – a storefront opening onto a busier thoroughfare. "You people ever heard of the front door? What d'ya want?"

Qui-Gon found his focus involuntarily waylaid by the bizarre menagerie of exotic specimens on display in the shop. With a conscious effort he shuttered the alluring smorgasbord from his attention, making a mental note to mention the address to Agrion Pertha next time he saw the old botanist. "I want more of these," he answered placidly, withdrawing the _micohastae_ spine from his belt pouch. "I am told you might be able to supply such things."

"Chisszzk," the man spat. "Kriffing foozil."

"I take it you do keep these in stock?"

The unfortunate den-keeper cringed. "Look – I sell exotics, okay? You're not gonna, uh…. Make a fuss about," he jerked his head back toward the jargul grotto, "my backyard?" Jeid were not enforcers of the local law, as they both knew; but Jedi connections could easily lead to trouble even down here in the lawless enclaves of the Deeps.

Qui-Gon pretended to weigh options. "It depends how much help you can be. I am _very_ eager to find out more about this spine. You sold some recently, did you not?"

Miserably, the shop owner nodded. "Vape it… fine. Yes, Creepy little barve – bought all I had. Never saw him after that . 'Bout a week ago. Satisfied?"

"No. Let me see the financial files."

This time the man spat quite literally, the wet projectile landing in a dim and cobweb strewn corner. He trawled through a drawer and came up with a grit-encrusted data pad. "Here. Help your kriffin' self. But he paid with dataries, not a private account."

The Jedi master frowned over the relevant entries. There had been a purchase of venom-coated darts some eight days ago – and the hefty price had indeed been paid in Republic credits – serialized in the sequences issued only to legislative and judicial employees of the Galactic government.

So the assassin was on the payroll of _someone_ influential. Be it judge, prison warden, or corrupt politician, the implications were equally grim: Zan Arbor had friends even here on Coruscant; or else her superiors had. He set the datapad upon the cracked counter. "Thank you."

The man shifted nervously. "That's all? You ain't gonna _impound_ anything?"

Thre were some very rare specimens for sale upon the tiered shelves of the emporium – but Qui-Gon Jinn was a Jedi Master and a man of principle. Regretfully, he shook his head. "No."

And then he took his leave, passing through the dingy front entrance and gradually threading his way up from the realm of doubt and shadows that oozed like poison among the fissures of the glittering planet's face – up into cleaner air and newer buildings, the glorious edifice built upon a decaying graveyard of corruption

* * *

Obi-Wan rapidly skimmed through the series of holo-portraits, eyes half-hooded as he watched the grisly parade of scum and villainy scroll before him. Face after face, ugly visage after scarred and tattooed and mangled visage… and then-

He tapped the datamonitor's fingerpad, recalling the last image.

Dooku leaned in closer over his shoulder. "Yes?"

The Padawan nodded. "Yes, master. I know this one. His name is Abloz; he worked for Zan Arbor. He was there – on Ossk and Telos. He journeyed back with us on her private shuttle." His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, perhaps kneading away some remembered jolt of fire from an electrocollar, or perhaps merely worrying at a muscle sore from saber practice and an extended period of time hunched before this terminal in the Archives.

Dooku enlarged the image and cross-indexed it to other files. The computer obediently chewed its cybertronic cud. Mulling through millions of entries. "Ah. Then our wild bantha chase was not entirely in vain. Moll discovered this disreputable fellow heading a small band of mercenaries on the fringes of Republic space. Loyal devotees of his former employer, though not I think well-informed as they might be."

Obi-Wan turned to regard the Sentinel somberly. "Are they in the employ of Syfo-Dyas?"

"That remains to be seen… but it is a distinct possibility. If we are to find his whereabouts, the likeliest gambit would be an infiltration of this thugs' society. The lowest minions in a large organization often lack sufficient wit to anticipate a trap."

The young Jedi watched the Archives database report appear holographically above the desk-projector. But there was little useful information about the cyborg known as Abloz, or his presumed associates. "Do you think one of these mercenaries might have made it as far Coreward as here?"

Dooku raised a brow. "You do, I perceive."

A shrug. "There was an assassin who made an attempt on Master Qui-Gon and myself shortly before the trial. If Arbor has loyal friends in the criminal underworld, then it seems likely that attack stemmed from such a quarter."

This intrigued Dooku, who cocked his head to one side and stroked his short beard. "Have you identified this bounty hunter?"

"No – but he was very small – not a common species. And he used a _dart gun._ The spines were derived from a rare fungal life form found on Rugosa. Master Pertha made a positive identification."

"Fascinating." Dooku stood, abruptly ending the conference. Then, quite unexpectedly, "Will you dine with me?"

An invitation not be refused. Obi-Wan hesitated, unsure what reaction he might provoke in his own master should he return to Temple to find his wayward apprentice in the Sentinel's company. "I –"

"Excellent." Dooku shepherded him out of the sequestered alcove and down the main aisle.

Halfway down the long corridor between the glowing double-tiered stacks, Obi-Wan paused to recover his own missing cloak. The garment had been folded and pointedly left draped upon a high-backed chair by the fastidious head Archivist; even now, the faint signature of her vexation lingered in the Force. Hidden in the dark folds of cloth was a small holo-book :_ Seventeen Short Meditations on the Virtue of Mindfulness, _by some obscure master several centuries deceased. With a small quirk of his lips, the Padawan flung the cloak over his arm and nudged the edifying treatise into a dark corner beneath the chair, where it could be later discovered and retrieved by the incomparable Madame Nu. Then he respectfully fell back into step beside his companion.

"I have been meaning to compliment you upon your handling of the courtroom farce yesterday," Dooku went on, casually. "The Judiciary has far outlived its usefulness; it is high time its most fatuous luminaries were dethroned. I enjoyed your testimony." A light chuckle, the first expression of genuine mirth Obi-Wan could remember hearing from the revered master. "Buffoons like that fetid lizard-spawn Dauggl ought to be brought to heel in such fashion – his sophistry is an affront to reason itself."

The young Jedi kept his mouth shut, eyes widening at the Jedi master's contemptuous sentiment, gut twisting at the open approval of what had so recently brought down Qui-Gon's wrath upon his head. Heart pounding against his ribs, he followed the elegant Sentinel toward the upper level concourse, making no reply.

"You do realize, of course," Dooku went on, black cloak rippling as he ascended the broad stairs to the Hall-of-Unity-in-Fraternal –Purpose, "That Zan Arbor will be acquitted."

"What?"

"She has but to promise the masses some scrap off the table of her gluttony, and they will flock to her cause. What is the life of one Jedi compared to the march of Progress?"

"Nothing, of course – but, master – Zan Arbor is _evil."_

Another chuckle, but one devoid of any emotion but blackest cynicism. "You did not think the justice system would serve justice, did you, Padawan?"

"The Republic…" the young Jedi protested, half-heartedly. But what if the Republic – the courts, the people, the ineffectual and over-wrought machinery of democracy – stood ready to countenance cruel murder, to malign the victim of an obscene conceit, for the sake of envy? Of greed? Then what?

Dooku slowed, voice lowered to a sinuous murmur, the quiet inexorable music of eroding water against stone. "The Jedi Order exists to serve the ideals of the Republic. Even if she has forgotten them herself."

Obi-Wan risked an openly searching glance at the older man.

"Yes, alas." Dooku sadly shook his head, not rebuffing the unspoken query. "The Order, I sometimes think, is the last thing standing between civilization and absolute putrefaction. I tell you, Padawan: the time is coming. And when it does, only great sacrifice will forestall utter and galaxy-wide corruption. Great sacrifice – and great _daring."_

The Padawan lengthened his stride, hand closing about his 'saber's hilt. He had vowed service and honor – and obedience. His very life had been immolated upon a sacrificial altar, before individual will or the words to give it shape had formed within him. That sacrifice should not be in vain – Tahl Uvain's sacrifice _could _not be in vain. And so now, in full freedom and understanding he swore the same oath again, burning with purest fervor; even the corruption of that which he served would not prove a hindrance to his spirit…. or his daring.

They crossed beneath a vaulted arch and passed on, side by side.


	18. Chapter 18

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Qui-Gon woke the next morning to the scent of freshly brewed tea.

Dawn had not yet lifted night's veil; the apartment was still clad in loaming shadow and grey highlight, the harsh realities of day to come mantled in soft twilight, cocooned in the silent coil of steam rising in the cool recycled air.

He stood in the doorframe a moment, genuinely stunned. In all their years together, Obi-Wan had never once – without the intervention of illness or injury on Qui-Gon's part – managed to rise before his mentor. And especially not before dawn.

"I am astounded," he confessed. "Are you well?"

Clad in undertunic and trousers, his apprentice presented him with a delicate bowl of liquid. The ceramplast was hot to the touch, the aroma enticing: _silpa_ leaves, citron, a certain floral sweetness about the edges …

"Did you filch honey from the kitchens?" he sternly inquired.

He was rewarded with the most miniscule twitch of mischievous delight, a mere tightening of the Padawan's mouth, the slight quiver of a brow. "…I did not," came the carefully enunciated response, just enough hesitation bestowed upon the syllables to make the older man wonder whether Obi-Wan meant it was not _he_ that had done the filching, or whether the luxury had not been filched from the _kitchens,_ or whether he had filched not _honey_ but perhaps telva nectar or some other rare delicacy.

And, perhaps because the grey time before day's true light was a timeless netherworld removed from the pressures and burdens of destiny, there was enough humor in the subtle evasion to bring the smallest of smiles to his overburdened heart, and thence to his eyes.

But Obi-Wan did not register much satisfaction in having successfully ruffled his mentor's composure. His gaze dropped to the floor. "Master," he tentatively began. "…I wish to apologize for my conduct."

Off guard, Qui-Gon found himself at a loss for any eloquent reply. "...During the trial, you mean."

"After," Obi-Wan clarified, warming to his subject. "I regret my disrespectful behavior, master. I honor you and your teachings and I – I … my anger was misplaced. I should not have offered you such unfitting words."

So this was a _partial_ apology – a surrender of whatever rebellion had been offered Qui-Gon as a master, not per se a retraction of the Padawan's harsh and unseemly words to the wicked Nemoidian litigator. But a weight lifted off Qui-Gon's chest all the same – and he chided himself for the delusion that his present apprentice was _anything_ like his proud and duplicitous predecessor.

"Padawan, " he began, but Obi-Wan was not yet finished.

"I know that I have failed the test set me by Master Windu and the Council… and I am sorry to disappoint you so severely, master. I did not intend to dishonor you." His voice cracked, momentarily, and there followed a half-second's pause. "Or Master Tahl," he added, in a strained tone, eyes glancing upward and then returning to the floor between their boots.

This pathetic declaration was followed by a sudden and complete attenuation of mental shields, glacial defenses melting to reveal the wastelands beyond, a realm which should have been young and green but was instead frost-bitten by past and future pain, scarred by memory and recent loss and devastation yet to come.

The older man cursed himself again, this time for inexcusable blindness. Enrapt in his own impending grief, he had skimmed too lightly over the business with Siri Tachi. That wound was barely healed before the Zan Arbor trial had crashed down upon their heads; and instead of showing compassion, what had he asked of his student? That the boy exhibit a level of detachment some Knights might struggle to maintain in the face of such raw memory and provocation. And, smarting with indignation, he had then punished the inevitable failure with a reminder of the deprivation yet to be endured. He stood speechless for a long moment, seeing his apprentice's utter and willful vulnerability of spirit for the humble and courageous gesture that it was, and marveling that old Yoda had forborne from whacking his stubborn and foolish shins last night.

"Obi-Wan," he sighed, at last. "I was too harsh. My judgment is clouded." He needed the Padawan to stand firm, to be steady on his own feet before his time – for he feared his own debility in the face of eviscerating loss. He needed Obi-Wan to be rooted already in the Force, in serenity and wisdom – for the waves already threatened to pull the master under, and the only pain that would compound the looming hammer-blow of fate would be the knowledge that two, and not just one, had fallen to the stroke.

It was unfair. And it was not to be.

The Padawan only nodded. "This is what attachment does," he said, miserably.

"Yes," the tall man sighed. "Forgive me. I have led you down a path with no end but pain – you have been a loyal follower of a foolish guide. I have failed you in this."

Now Obi-Wan was looking at him again. "I don't care, master. I do not want- I have never wished for any guidance but yours," he blurted, with a ferocity bespeaking inner doubt.

Qui-Gon wondered who had been whispering in the boy's ear; and then he _knew;_ and then he bristled.

The Padawan flinched. Shields down, he had laid himself open to Qui-Gon's every disturbance of mind. Smoothing his thoughts into order, projecting _warmth_ and _welcome,_ the Jedi master firmly gripped his apprentice by the elbows. "Even in your failures, you make me proud. You face them as a Jedi, with honesty and strength. This ordeal – we will see it through together to the bitter end."

That perturbing undercurrent of doubt dissolved. Obi-Wan took a minute step closer, as though to assure himself that he was indeed still under the older man's wing, safe from some other, unspoken shadow. Qui-Gon frowned over it for a fleeting heartbeat, but decided instead to bask in this present moment in which a tenuous harmony had been regained. Before their mutual swell of relief could transform into something more _difficult, _ he saved them both by giving the Padawan's braid a less than gentle tug.

"Ow!"

"_That_ is for whatever you _did not_ do about the honey. I will not tolerate skullduggery, young one. Be grateful the tea was brewed to perfection, or such a lapse would have cost you another dunking in the river."

"Of course, master… I am grateful that you consider the gratification of your whim and taste sufficient cause to eclipse all moral implications," his apprentice smirked.

"Did you not just _apologize _ for disrespect, Obi-Wan?"

The Padawans' eyes widened innocently. "But that was the past – now I am attending to the present moment."

_Wretched, impudent brat._

They held each other's gaze silently, mutually challenging the other to laugh first.

But all good things come to an end, and not even humor could forestall the evolution of one present into the next. Duty's clarion call shattered the quiet perfection of their discord.

Qui-Gon sighed. "We must be ready to depart within the hour – we are due in the courtroom early today."

"Yes, master." Another hesitance, and then a bold risk. "With your permission…"

The Jedi master waited, brows raised.

Obi-Wan looked down again, then up, the barest hint of pleading in his eyes. "I.. should like to see Master Uvain. Before we go." He swallowed.

Qui-Gon relented, regretting his harsh dictate of the evening previous. It was cruel to deprive his Padawan of the scant and aching comfort to be derived from that quarter. And it was pointless as well - after all, there was no escaping the trap; they were both fatally entangled in its snare. "…Very well," he conceded.

* * *

"Master?" Obi-Wan whispered yet again, holding Tahl's limp hand between his own as he vainly sought for a response.

Behind him both Qui-Gon and Ben To Li shook their heads.

"She may speak again before the end," the healer quietly assured the Padawan. "But now is not the time."

Obi-Wan knelt still, beside the bed, face carved into stony impassivity, eyes searching and searching over Tahl Uvain's nearly unrecognizable face, as though certain the intensity of his gaze could revive some hidden spark within her.

"Obi-Wan."

A pair of glazed eyes rose to meet his own. "Must we leave, master? Could we not –"

"No." Qui-Gon 's answer was sharp, edged with his own longing. He could not afford to entertain such temptation, even as a thought. "Duty."

A quiet desperation lurked beneath the young Jedi's next plea. "What if…. While we are gone, what if….?"

Ben To's brows lowered, but his voice was soft, cajoling. "Then it is the will of the Force. You must commend her spirit to the Force, not cling to the moment of parting."

If Obi-Wan did not meet the healer's compassionate gaze, neither of the older men misinterpreted this as disrespect. He laid the white hand upon its cover, and pressed his forehead against it, shoulders hunching forward.

"Padawan." Qui-Gon urged him again, his own heart close to bursting its dams. "It is time."

"But-"

"Obi-Wan."

The young Jedi found his feet. "Yes, master." Defeat bruised his voice, weighted his steps.

Ben To saw them both out, a regretful hand brushing against either man's shoulder as they passed.

* * *

Air traffic that morning was particularly irksome. Every free fly lane in the legislative district was crammed with vehicles, a sluggish parade of bloated insects floating in orderly lines to their thousandfold destinations. The Temple private air-car crawled along in the uppermost queue, its occupants valiantly refraining from restless fidgeting.

For the most part.

Qui-Gon's hand stole sideways to arrest his apprentice's fortieth attempt to discreetly scratch at his left forearm. "Obi-Wan."

"I'm sorry, master."

Curious, the Jedi master held his Padawan's wrist and shoved the long undertunic's sleeve up, peering at an inflamed patch of red surrounding a small puncture wound. He frowned. "Where did you come by this?"

Obi-Wan squirmed. "Oh – ah…"

"_Well?"_

The master's scowl was mirrored in his student's face. A resigned sigh, and then, "Master Pertha. I … that is, he helped me." When this paltry serving of information did not satisfy, he reluctantly continued. "We used an immature _micohastae _ spine." He winced. "It itches. Actually, it hurts like the blazes."

Qui-Gon stared at him. "You what?"

"I – it's a primitive Rugosan custom. Some of the indigenous tribes inoculate themselves against their own hunting poisons in the same manner. With the Force to help…"

The Jedi master was unimpressed. "Undertaking such a risky venture without a healer's direct supervision was _foolhardy,_ Obi-Wan. Wherever did you get such a bizarre idea? It isn't like you to behave in such a dangerous and impulsive fashion."

No answer. They folded their arms in unison, a matched vexation simmering in the enclosed space.

The traffic seemed slower than ever. "Was this the result of too much free time to pursue research in the Archives?" Qui-Gon demanded, already formulating the terms of a punitive ban on use of the Temple library.

Alarmed by the unspoken threat, his apprentice issued a hot objection. "It has nothing to do with my studies! It was Master Dooku's idea!"

Shock rippled in the Force.

"I _see,"_ the tall man growled, grinding his teeth before he released his spike of apprehension into the Force. "He lacks confidence in your defensive skills, or my vigilance, or perhaps both."

Obi-Wan studied his hands, clasped firmly in his lap. "No, master," he quietly rebutted this accusation. "I asked him directly. It was my initiative.

The Jedi master smoldered in silence for a full minute, still examining the virulent red mark upon his student's arm. At last he relinquished his grip. "This happened yesterday." Before this morning's reconciliation. It was a thing of the past, another act of rebellion to be forgotten – for to make aught of it now would be to endanger their fragile accord.

"I'm truly sorry, master – I should have sought your permission. It will not happen again… I _did_ consider the danger. It was an informed choice."

"Which makes it so much better," Qui-Gon huffed, wondering whether Dooku had also _considered the danger_ before blandly countenancing such an outrageous risk.

Obi-Wan had sufficient mother-wit not to press the issue any further. Eventually the Jedi master released his resentment into the Force, laying a reassuring hand upon his Padawan's knee. "You are going to be the death of me someday," he sighed, with a rueful smile.

* * *

Outside the courthouse, the throng of media hounds and anxious spectators pressed more closely than ever, the air thick with hovering cam-bots and security surveillance drones. A second contingent of armed guards had been dispatched from the adjacent legislative complex to contain the angry ranks of protesters, which had tripled and quadrupled in number since the first day of the trial, its ranks swollen with the curious, the peeved, the indiscriminately discontent, and those who simply courted trouble for its own sake.

The Jedi passed through this gauntlet quickly, cowls drawn high over their faces, strides well-matched as they ascended the stairs side by side, the prowling cam-bots clustering tight above them, vying for the best angle. The main doors swept open at a wave of Qui-Gon's hand, ushering them into the cool vestibule of the building, where the security scanners stood ready. They again relinquished their weapons, and were sent through the scanning portals, though the officer on duty had not sufficient nerve to actually _frisk _them. They automatically bypassed the lift lobby, heading for the stairwell without need to consult upon the matter. But here they fell victim to a cleverly laid ambush; upon the third floor landing they were importuned by Baro Spekkopolos, who had lain in wait for them.

_Retreat or aggressive negotiations? _Obi Wan projected across their Force bond.

Qui-Gon's grey eyes gleamed in amusement but he signaled _stay_ with one hand.

The reporter beamed in greeting. "Thought I might find you gentlemen here." He tapped his temple. "Gotta think like your quarry to be a successful hunter, eh?"

The tall Jedi master offered him a terse bow. "If you will excuse us."

But the journalist merely backed up a pace or two, still blocking their path up the next flight, with an audacity unequalled among many sentient beings in the galaxy. "Look – just a word or two with you, before Zan Arbor's deposition. I think you'll admit, I'm not a man you want to trifle with." He fixed the Padawan with a meaningful look, the faintest smirk playing about his lips.

Obi-Wan glanced at his mentor, mouth pressed in a thin line, eyes bespeaking a heartfelt hope that no _object lesson_ was to be made of this situation. He inclined his head infinitesimally, silently suggesting that they simply push past, ill-mannered or not.

Qui-Gon raised one finger on his left hand, nixing the idea.

The Padawan tugged on his earlobe, as though scratching an itch.

The Jedi master frowned.

Releasing a short breath of exasperation, Obi-Wan raised both brows.

But Qui-Gon only shook his head.

To his apprentice's horror, he nodded politely to Spekkopolos. "Very well. We must be brief, however; court is nearly in session. I am sure you would not wish to miss the spectacle either."

The reporter grinned widely, tagging along behind them as they hurried up the remaining flights. His cam-bot hummed nosily overhead, flitting and circling around the Jedi's heads. The man himself huffed and panted a bit as his interviewees jogged lightly up the steps two at a time, not slackening pace as they climbed ever higher.

"You – ah, you Jedi know the defense is going to focus on Arbor's research – on her interest in these midi-thingummies."

"So we had surmised," Qui-Gon replied, without looking back.

"Well," Spekkopolos breathlessly continued, "You wanna let me in on the secret? What makes a Jedi so special? Where's the juju come from? Can ordinary people get a piece of that action?"

The tall man halted, bringing Obi-Wan up short a stair above him. He leaned down, soberly. "It is not contagious," he assured the eager journalist, with a wink, and continued on his way.

A sharp look warned his apprentice not to so much as bat an eyelash. Obi-Wan tucked his chin down and looked straight ahead, bounding up the steps three at a time.

"What about the Force?" the man panted, heaving in deep breaths as he struggled behind them. "Where's that come from?"

Qui-Gon gestured expansively. "Everywhere," he said, quickening his stride. Obi-Wan kept pace.

"Wait!" the reporter hollered after them, having abandoned pursuit upon the last landing. He doubled over, hands on knees. "Oh – uh…" He gasped for air. "… maybe another time."

Qui-Gon paused at the stairs' summit. "At your convenience," he answered, and gently directed his student through the last door.

"Master!" the young Jedi objected. "I thought it was '_immature' _ and '_unbecoming' _ to end an interview in such fashion!"

The tall man laid a hand on his shoulder, steering him down the corridor. "You still have much to learn. I ended nothing; indeed, I agreed to speak with him. I cannot help it if our friend chose to stop following us. He seemed to have nothing more to say."

Obi-Wan shoved hands into opposite sleeves and glowered at the marble floor. "Yes, master."


	19. Chapter 19

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

The floating hover pod came to a halt in the spot-lighted center of the courtroom, beams of white radiance limning severely cropped hair, sharp cheekbones, the crisp hems of an orange prison uni-suit, a pair of straight dark brows set over glittering eyes, pools of manic intensity. Even the cam-bots seemed to keep their wary distance, circling hesitantly above Jenna Zan Arbor's arresting presence.

Watching from the enclosed observation balcony adjacent to the prosecutor's office, Obi-Wan let out his pent-up breath in an audible hiss, the Force quivering with a rare tension.

Qui-Gon Jinn's grey eyes slid sideways to consider his apprentice's rigid profile, his taut mouth and furrowed brow, and then returned to the spectacle below. All that could be said had been already expressed; the rest was between the Padawan and the Force. Theirs was no easy path.

Bune Dauggl had selected a particularly sumptuous set of robes for the special occasion. His special Nemoidian barrister's hat appeared like an uncouth golem perched atop his head, a grotesque and ungainly thing squatting atop some ugly monolith. He folded his webbed hands together and then unfolded them, glassy reptilian eyes sweeping over his audience before he commenced the questioning.

"Doctor Arbor," he lisped, when he was certain of the entire courthouse's unmitigated attention. "You have heard the accusations leveled against you by Padawan Kenobi and upheld as formal charges by the Republic prosecutor, as well as the physical evidence including medical records and certain material evidence files stolen from your facility –"

"Objection!" Sanguu's warbling tenor interrupted. "The files in question were confiscated, not stolen."

Judge Zhudii rapped her gavel, diffidently. "Sustained. Continue, Mr. Dauggl."

"Yes, yes," the Nemoidian muttered. "Confiscated, taken, appropriated from your personal and professional records database on Telos and Ossk 88. My question, Doctor Arbor, is this: would you characterize the previous witness' account of events as accurate?"

Jenna Zan Arbor smiled, a thin and humorless curvature of her lips. "No, I am afraid not. While I am confident he believes his narrative to be true and reliable, it does not reflect the reality of the situation."

The litigator rubbed his hands together. "Well, then. Let us _clarify_ what really happened. Doctor Arbor, when did you first encounter Padawan Kenobi?"

The scientist nodded her head, curtly. "At the time he indicated – a bit more than two standard years ago – at my private research foundation located on Ossk 88."

"And under what circumstances did this meeting take place?"

Zan Arbor leaned forward, addressing the nearest cam-bots directly, her calculating gaze unflinching in the face of their scrutiny. "I discovered him in the act of trespassing upon the facility, armed, and as my security forces later discovered, having already committed several acts of minor sabotage to force his entry, as well as having overpowered guards posted at the entry points. We considered him a priority one security threat."

The Nemoidian's fleshy mouth wriggled in smug anticipation. "And pray tell: why would you consider a mere adolescent to be a priority one security threat?"

"Why," the woman coolly replied, "He was clearly a Jedi. Everyone knows that Jedi are capable of astounding feats and are trained in infiltration and combat techniques practically since infancy, besides being endowed with unnatural powers of telekinesis and mind control. This was the second time my research foundation had been infiltrated by an armed Jedi intruder; and I had every confidence that a _young_ agent such as Padawan Kenobi would be accompanied by at least one other member of their Order. I instructed my security to act accordingly."

"Meaning?"

"Simply to neutralize the threat. He had to be contained, and his weapon confiscated. We uphold a strict _no-armaments_ policy at Arbor Institute."

"I see," the barrister murmured, circling his pod about the perimeter of the wide chamber. "That seems reasonable to me. And what meausres were required to contain this intruder?"

Zan Arbor sighed, her thin brows lifting. "Unfortunately, due to the extreme nature of his abilities and training, and his violent and uncooperative attitude, we were forced to take strong measures, for the safety of my staff and myself, and ultimately the Jedi himself. My security forces did have to hold him at blaster point, and I ordered that he be sedated."

In the observation balcony, Obi-Wan's icy scowl deepened into a sneer of disgust. He tightened his arms across his chest, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair. Qui-Gon watched but said nothing.

"So you were forced to contain him using chemical methods?"

"Yes," the scientist replied, feigning regret. "And it required several doses of very specific inhibitors to keep him at a level of non-hostility that I deemed safe. Not only that, but at one point during transit to Telos, he overcame the aforesaid sedatives and endangered every staff member on our shuttle, holding me hostage in the cockpit and threatening to kill me unless the pilots cooperated with his hijacking plan. Fortunately we were able to subdue him and to implement other measures to keep him contained. It was a highly volatile and dangerous situation, as I am sure you will understand. Jedi powers exceed most conventional means of enforcing compliance. We were obliged to use a strong hand."

The Nemoidian shook his head. "A harrowing experience, Doctor Arbor. And how long did this continue?"

His witness pressed her mouth into a thin line. "Not very long. I had entertained hopes of asking the Republic to intervene and remove him from my custody – but a Jedi extraction team was sent within days, and they effected a violent invasion of my second facility and had me arrested and my private property impounded. I never laid eyes on the young Jedi again after that day until this trial, since I have been held in a high security prison since that date."

"So," Dauggl summed up, "After this intruder trespassed on your private property, harmed your security officers, threatened to kill you and hijack your shuttle, you had to find means to keep him subdued while you escaped further Jedi interference in your affairs and sought a solution to the dilemma?"

"Yes," Zan Arbor affirmed. "I was aware that the nature of my research had earned me the enmity of the Jedi Order, and that I was being persecuted for it. I merely did what was necessary to protect the people and facilities under my care."

The Nemoidian made another contemplative circuit of the dim arena. "Your research… let us discuss this next. How would you describe the nature of your research – the part of it which you believe the Jedi Order finds objectionable?"

"My research?" the woman said, a fanatic light kindling in her eyes. Her spine straightened and she drew herself up like an orator ready to declaim. "Ah, my research. It is simple: I am on the cusp of a breakthrough – a scientific revolution like no other. The Jedi – and certain others to be found across the galaxy – have an innate capacity to tap into something they call the Force. This energy field is a concomitant effect of life itself; a precursor and result of it, so to speak. By means of this connection, they are afforded strength, longevity, accelerated healing, and enhancement of natural talents both neurological and intellectual. This Force is the elixir of life, and yet most sentients have deprived of its benefits thus far in history. But I have discovered a sub-cellular indicator for Force-abilities: a symbion microscopic organism existing abundantly in Jedi and Force-sensitive organisms. My research merely seeks to isolate and extract these microorganisms for purposes of making such hitherto occult powers available beyond the Jedi Order and its oppressive theocratic parameters."

The court erupted into a clamor; holo-bots whizzed overhead; the bailiff called for order; spectators and participants alike stirred with interest and rampant speculation.

Above the tumult, divided from it by a thick wall of transparent plasti-steel, Obi-Wan rose from his seat and paced restlessly along the balcony's narrow length.

"She's _insane,_ master. They must see it."

"Do not be so confident, young one. Focus determines reality; those who see the Force as power rather than responsibility might consider such ambition laudable."

"Surely they would not excuse torture, even for some reputedly noble end?"

Qui-Gon sighed. "Sit down," he advised. "This isn't over yet."

The Padawan grumpily settled beside his master. "I can _feel_ her deception! Can't the jury? The Judge?"

"They do not have the Force," the tall man reminded him, wryly.

They lasped into a pensive silence as the Judge finally reined in the courtroom's chaos. "Proceed, Mr. Dauggl," she instructed.

The tall Nemoidian held his arms out in a gesture suggestive of wonderment. "And why, Doctor Arbor, would the Jedi Order disapprove of such research?"

Zan Arbor leered. "I imagined, when I first began my study of midichlorians, that the Jedi would be more than willing to cooperate in such a project. After all, if they are sworn to serve the Force and to alleviate the suffering of all beings, then surely they would support the scientific analysis and replication of their natural abilities in others? But I have encountered nothing but hostility, and can only assume that this stems from a jealous desire to hoard their secrets for their own exclusive use, and from a need to control all knowledge and use of the Force for their own obscure purposes. Sadly, I am but one woman, and the Jedi Order is a powerful and ancient institution. I fear I have little recourse in the face of such opposition - and the time I have languished in prison already, when I might have been conducting research for the common good of sentient beings, is proof that even now, in our technologically advanced and enlightened age, religious intolerance and oppression are still deadly foes of true progress."

This incendiary speech garnered some applause from the audience, and another outbreak of noise and commotion.

"She plays the martyr well," Qui-Gon remarked, from his observer's post.

"She plays the Sith-spawned strumpet_ even better_," his apprentice growled.

A stern look from his mentor silenced him - momentarily.

"She is a despicable murdering vetch," Obi-Wan insisted quietly, hands clasped between his knees, teeth gritted behind a curling lip. "I won't _keep quiet_ about it, master."

"You'll do what I tell you."

"I'll do what _I must."_

"Then you'll do as I say– for you are a man of your word, and _must_ therefore keep your oath. We will speak later."

Defeated, but not pacified, Obi-Wan retreated into simmering discontent, the Force about him wavering in mirage-like ripples, the hot effluvia off a 'saber's blade. Qui-Gon inhaled deeply and settled back in his own seat, a cautious sliver of attention reserved for his agitated apprentice while his main focus returned to the trial.

Dauggl having made his point, or neatly engineered the questioning so that Zan Arbor might make _hers,_ the witness was turned over to Zuul Sanguu for cross examination. The stoop-shouldered counsel for the prosecution seemed a frail slip of a man compared to the Nemoidian's imposing and ostentatiously garbed presence. Even his voice fell flat, the amplifiers throwing it like an insubstantial wave against the cliffs of the courtroom, its sound and fury spattering to harmless foam.

"Doctor Arbor," the prosecutor began, "You speak very eloquently of your research. Are we to believe that the physical damage caused to Padawan Kenobi during his time as your captive is the result of said _research?"_

"Damage?" the grey-haired woman repeated. "I don't recall damaging anyone."

"You deny taking a dangerous volume of blood, and other tissue samples, for the purposes of examination and analysis?"

Zan Arbor stiffened. "Standard tissue sample analysis is undertaken in med clinics across the galaxy," she retorted. "Common medical practice is not the same as _damage."_

"The medical records indicate a _excessive_ loss of blood, as well as scarring and bruising from other procedures, many invasive, all performed at your laboratory facility without consent on a sentient subject."

"Objection!" Dauggl hollered. "Your honor, the reliability of the medical records is in question."

"Sustained. Mr. Sanguu, please conform to protocol."

The lawyer seemed to shrink into himself like a shelled amphibian. He returned his attentions to the smirking scientist. "Would you confirm that you performed _standard medical procedures _on a captive without consent?"

Zan Arbor was unfazed. "It was necessary. Because of the difficulty we had in keeping him sedated, I took pains to monitor his basic vitality. The exaggerations perpetrated in the medical report are nothing I can address; we merely did what was needed. Since Padawan Kenobi was not in full possession of his faculties and there was no other representative immediately available, some testing had to be performed without permission. But to _omit_ such precautions would have been irresponsible."

Sanguu floated about the witness pod a few times, visibly unseated by this turnabout. "What about Jedi Master Tahl Uvain?" he demanded. "We have reports of much more substantial damage inflicted upon her by you, Doctor Arbor. Illegal synthetic organisms were seeded into her nervous system, resulting in blindness and progressive and eventually fatal neurological decay. You would not call these _standard medical tests,_ would you?"

But the scientist remained serene in the face of this accusation. "I would not. And it is a pity that she was removed from my care before I was able to reverse the crippling condition I discovered her in upon her arrival. Where she had been before invading my facility I do not know, but as we have already discovered it was not a Senate or Council-approved mission, I suppose nobody does."

In the high balcony, Obi-Wan sprang to his feet, white faced. "_Liar."_

Qui-Gon raised a hand and forcibly pulled him back down. "Anger will avail us nothing."

"This is intolerable!" The Padawan gripped the armrests with both hands, knuckles blanching. "How can anyone believe such _filthy lies?"_

The older man willed his pulse to slow, the traitorous drumming of his heart to lessen its belligerent rhythm. How easy it would be to follow where his student lead – or to leap into the breach shoulder to shoulder, wills compacted into a deadly unity of purpose. Across their bond fiery images flashed and shimmered: justice imposed by force of prowess and dominant_ will_ , sabers howling in answer to the treacherous untruths here espoused, murder and cruelty met in equal kind. The panoply of shared thought swept them up to the dizzying pinnacle of temptation… but that was all.

Obi-Wan dragged two hands over his face. "I'm sorry. I don't-"

"No." Qui-Gon touched his student's shoulder. "We will not." Neither of them would, though both longed to do so.

They slumped, side by side, releasing the bitter ashes of forbidden desire into the Force, anger burned out to cold acceptance.

"Patience. We will see what happens."

"Yes, master."

The interior doors of the balcony burst open, to admit a court security guardsman. "I am sorry to disturb you, Master Jedi," the man panted. "The protesters and media outside are making a disturbance… we could use your assistance."

Qui-Gon stood, Obi-Wan right behind him, heading for the exit.

"You had best remain here," the Jedi master gently informed his eager Padawan. "Under the circumstances I do not think your presence would help keep the peace."

The young Jedi's expression went from rigidly composed to rigidly composed – a difference so subtle that even another Force-sensitive might have missed it. To Qui-Gon it spoke volumes.

"I'm sorry," he added, in a quiet undertone, one corner of his mouth quirking in the shadow of a rueful smile.

Obi-Wan dipped his head in resignation and watched the tall man sweep out the door on the heels of the flustered security officer, brown cloak disappearing through the attorney's suite and into the corridor beyond. He stood in disgruntled silence for a few moments and then returned to the row of chairs near the tall window opening onto the courts.

Zuul Sangu was making a last valiant attempt to defend the cause of truth.

"Doctor Arbor," the thin man addressed her, pulling himself up to his full and unimpressive height, tugging on the long lapels of his gown. "You have just admitted to this court that your interest in midichlorians and Force abilities extends back over twenty years of your career, and has been a source of continual frustration to you due to the lack of willing research subjects. If this is true, I submit that you leapt upon the opportunity to conduct such experiments and to collect whatever specimens you were able when opportunity presented itself, with or without the consent of the persons involved, with or without regard to Republic law, with or without any consideration of the consequences involved."

"Objection!" the Nemoidian barrister hollered from across the wide chamber.

Zhudii's gavel fell again. "Sustained. You are putting words in the witness' mouth, Mr. Sanguu. Refrain from making such statements until your closing argument."

The prosecutor deflated.

But Jenna Zan Arbor raised a magnanimous hand. "May I answer, your Honor?"

The judge waved her permission.

Obi-Wan's mouth gaped. He had been all but _gagged_ and bridled with a bit when it was his turn to take the witness stand, but now Zan Arbor was to be given highly irregular license to elucidate her own position? It was outrageous. Unfair. It made the skin across his belly tighten with a sure knowledge: Zhuddi had been bribed, bought and paid for antecedent to this whole affair. Indeed, the wicked scientist and her network of allies might have conspired to have the case thrown out of court altogether; why then the formality of a trial at all?

Unless it were to humiliate and cast aspersion upon the Order.

He ground his teeth, the instinctual certitude in no way allaying his flare of dread and resentment.

"If I have been hard pressed to pursue my researches," Zan Arbor declared, confident gaze encompassing the jury, the Judge's bench, the tiered rows of enthralled spectators, "that should be a sign to those who have eyes to see: there is _something_ being kept hidden from the galaxy at large. A natural resource of value beyond reckoning- one that is the innate right of _all_ the galaxy's citizens – has been monopolized by one sect of reclusive and privileged beings.

"If I have been over-eager, or too zealous in my pursuit of the common good, then it is a sad result of these dark times in which the most abundant gifts of nature are _refused_ to the masses, are kept hoarded in a most unequitable manner by those who have controlled and dominated them for a thousand generations. But I have hope in my heart, I have confidence in the Republic and its laws, that this situation can be reversed. I am even happy that I have endured two years of unjust imprisonment if this will raise awareness of the struggle for truth and knowledge raging unknown on behalf of the galaxy's free people.

"This is a war between Science and a decayed and antiquarian tradition, between Equality and _elitism_ of the most obnoxious and insidious kind. I stand before you, humble and contrite for whatever small breaches of protocol I have committed in the name of knowledge, and I exhort you: make judgement and act in the interest of the broader good, the common people, the cause of hope and peace for the future."

And there was a thunderous uproar, one which did not subside for minutes on end.

In the midst of the tumult, Zuul Sangu discreetly withdrew his pod and muttered the terms of his surrender in a timid voice, a white flag of truce fluttering in every defeated syllable. "No further questions, your honor."


	20. Chapter 20

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Obi-Wan started when a hand settled upon his shoulder. He had not sensed any intruder upon his smoldering introspective solitude.

"Forgive me." Yan Dooku's velvet tones were jarring contrast to the riotous surge of confusion and disdain erupting in the Force, in the courtroom beyond the transparent panel, within the Padawans' own mind. The cool implacability of the older Jedi's voice was a strange relief.

"Master Dooku – I did not expect you."

"I should think not." Flicking a bit of lint off the adjacent seat, the Sentinel folded himself elegantly into place on the Padawan's left. "I came on a whim."

The young Jedi doubted that the esteemed Master ever did _anything _ on a whim – but he dared not give voice to the thought.

Dooku chuckled lightly, a mere growling in his throat. "Am I so very fossilized that you suppose me immune to spontaneity?"

There was no real censure in the question. Taking a bold risk, the Padawan tipped his head to one side, feigning studious thought. "Do you prefer a rote answer or one improvised, master?"

The silver haired man's brows lifted delicately. "Hm," he replied, with minutely balanced ambiguity.

They sat in silence, ignoring the bustle in the courtroom outside their sheltered eyrie.

"There was a… _fracas_ outside the building," Dooku remarked, crossing his legs. "But Qui-Gon seemed to have it well in hand." His lips quirked with inscrutable humor.

Obi-Wan briefly entertained the amusing image of the Jedi Master demanding that the entire unruly mob run laps about the Temple perimeter until the disputants and disturbers of the peace were too exhausted to foster further unrest… or perhaps sending them to the kitchens en masse, there to be set to the penitential drudgery of peeling tuberfruits by hand, without use of the Force. He tucked his arms into opposite sleeves and mused upon the lights reflected on the interior of the plasti-steel window, as though the drama unfolding beyond it were reduced to a mere smudge of color and light upon smudged glass, a thing as unreal as his idle fancy.

Dooku watched him, keen as ever. "I should think you have seen and heard enough of this nonsense," he observed.

"A Jedi finishes what he starts," Obi-Wan responded, rebuffing the sentinel's discreet mental probe with adamantine courtesy.

Ah," the Jedi master sniffed, "But the Jedi did not start this. It has all the hallmarks of a traitorous manipulation. I _am_ impressed; Syfo-Dyas has woven an extensive net of influence." He raised a hand and ran it once over his short-cropped beard. "Indeed, did I not know better, I should suspect him of having formed an alliance with unholy powers."

But that was impossible, a thing of fairy tales and legends. A thousand years had elapsed since the Dark had marshaled such servants to its cause. And yet…

"Master Dooku? Why did he Turn? I thought … he was once a Shadow. Sworn to seek out and destroy manifestations of the Dark Side. How could a master like him fall? I have never understood it." Or perhaps he had simply never wished to understand it, his mind shying away from that precipitous drop into the abyss of possibilities, into the dangers that might lie along any one of their paths.

"It is easy to become what you hate; and it is easy to hate what you oppose," Dooku replied, succinctly. "Particularly, " he added, with a bitter undercurrent, "When it masquerades as that which you serve."

Obi-Wan frowned over this talk of charades and masks, an uncomfortable sliding of premonition in his belly, as though the words struck at some deep chord strung within him, the ringing knell of destiny.

If Dooku sensed his discomfort, he ignored it. "What have you learned from this farce?" he inquired, casually. "For doubtless a man of your intelligence has drawn the obvious conclusion."

"That in a civilized society, the only persons outside the dictates of decency and law are those who make it their profession?"

The Sentinel looked down his aquiline nose, grey eyes glittering with appreciation of the trenchant observation, his approval as fine-edged as the Padawan's wit. "And logically, therefore," he added, "_decency_ - as you term it - must be sought outside the realm of such persons' influence."

Obi-Wan's brows rose. "Do not the Jedi share the safe _profession_?"

"I was Knighted many a year ago," Dooku replied, placidly. "But I vowed service to the Force, not the law. There is a difference, you know; and do not tell me Qui-Gon has neglected to teach you this distinction, for I know him to be well versed in it."

Perturbed, the young Jedi made no answer – and just as well, for at that moment they both felt Qui-Gon Jinn's presence outside in the corridor.

The tall man entered on a cresting wave of irritation. "There was no real disturbance," he reported. "The report and request for aid were nothing but a gambit to obtain another media interview and more holo-net footage."

Dooku snorted derisively.

"Did you escape unscathed, master? Or will middle aged housewives soon be swooning in droves?"

Qui-Gon took the seat on his student's right side, leaning in close. "They might not be the only ones to drop dead on the spot, Padawan mine," he warned in a low murmur.

Obi-Wan's eyes widened. "Not the old _crones_ too," he breathed, feigning horror.

Soundlessly, the Jedi master mouthed his reply. _Brat._

Yan Dooku cleared his throat, purportedly to draw their focus back to the courtroom drama. "Master Li has taken the stand," he informed them, brows beetled together in a censorious line. "You may wish to attend."

And indeed, the Temple's senior healer now stood in the witness pod, Zuul Sangu's slight and stooped shoulders visible in the barrister's hover-pod just beyond. Dooku flicked the audio transmitter back to active mode with a wave of his hand.

"…many centuries of research on the subject," Ben To was saying. "Though this is considered a minor and relatively unimportant aspect of the Force's ways."

The prosecutor nodded. "Would you please clarify, Master Li? According to Doctor Arbor, these midichlorians are the fundamental key to Force abilities and to understanding the nature of the universal life energy, as you term it."

Ben To Li stroked his small pointed beard. "Fundamental, hm? I'm afraid that statement rests on a terrible misunderstanding. It is true that the midichlorians exist in abundance in the bloodstream and cell structure of every Jedi alive… and that they are a somatic means – analogous to any other organ or system within the body – through which the unconscious, vital nervous system, even the imagination and emotive centers are informed by the Force. Without them we would, as instinctive bodily sentients, know nothing of the Force, just as without a _brain _we would see nothing of the world about us… but it is sophomoric to suppose that they are the Force itself, any more than we claim that optic nerve receptors are color and light and the visible form of all that exists."

"Thank you Master Li for this elucidation. So, according to your estimation, there is little benefit to be derived from research such as Doctor Arbor proposes?"

The tall healer shook his head, long silvering mane swishing against his dark robe's hood. "Indeed not. Far from being a source and cause of Force sensitivity, some of our philosophers have argued that they are best looked upon as a result or effect of it in a particular organism. Neither have genetic coding projects ever successfully located a genome linked to midichlorian count or such abilities. These things are outside the purview of conventional materialistic models."

"You mean, this Force is outside the bounds of science?"

Ben To Li snorted, a brusque sound that carried over the amplifiers. Obi-Wan risked an amused glance at his mentor; they both knew that particular exasperated noise all too well. "The Force _is _knowledge, and science is the methodical pursuit of knowledge. I would say that the Force _is _ science. Simply because it cannot be manipulated by gross and unwieldy methods, not understood through untutored and crude concepts does not mean it is beyond rational comprehension. What else is the Jedi Order but devoted to this sole purpose: right and true knowledge of the Force and its service?"

Sangu moved to the center of the wide space, eyeing the defendant and then the Judge. "So you would agree that Doctor Arbor and the Order – far from being inimical to each other's purposes - share a common goal?"

It was a pathetic attempt at reconciliation of warring perspectives, and Master Li was having none of it. "_Tommy-rot._ Doctor Arbor's researches, as she detailed them here, stem from superstitious and barbaric ignorance such as is seldom seen in the known galaxy outside underdeveloped backworlds in the far Rims. Blood platelet transfer and nucleic fusion of stem cells… I've met pre-agrarian tribal shamans with far greater sophistication of intellect and methodology than that." The Jedi healer folded his hands neatly before him and stood firm as the obligatory outcry met his remarks.

"Objection!" Dauggl shouted. "Pointless _ad hominem_ attack on my client!"

Judge Zhudii's gavel fell. "Sustained. The witness will limit his answer to matters directly pertaining to the question."

Inside the observation balcony, Obi-Wan grinned. "I shall never give Master Li grief again."

His mentor's dubious huff was answered with a show of pained dignity.

"You doubt my word, master!"

"If I thought you could keep that resolution, young one, I would present you for the Trials immediately."

An affronted scowl met this pronouncement.

"You _have_ finally found common ground with our revered healer," Qui-Gon admitted, pacifically. "Perhaps he will be thrown out for contempt of court. You two might commiserate after being formally reprimanded by the Council."

The Padawan was better pleased with this notion. "I could give him a lecture on cheekiness. For the general improvement of his moral character. I do have several of your favorites memorized, master - with a few significant stylistic improvements, of course."

"Force help any Padawan of yours, Obi-Wan. I pity him already."

Meanwhile, Dooku had risen and nonchalantly muted the audio-feed again. "I have seen enough to confirm my private suspicions," he told them, making a formal bow. "If you gentlemen will excuse me."

His former student and the student of the same both rose, and made him the customary obeisance, and watched him sweep out the door again, dark cape curling contemptuously at his heels as he strode away through Sanguu's office and into the outside corridor.

"Master Dooku thinks this trial is a mockery of justice. A _circus act._ And I agree – I can feel the treachery and deceit behind this debacle."

Qui-Gon studied him intently. "Do you still feel I ought to have cut Zan Arbor down?"

"I – I have never said that, master."

"You have. Without the use of words."

Obi-Wan bowed his head. "No. Or yes." A wry twist of the mouth. "I am sorry, master."

The tall man gestured toward the inner chamber. "Never mind. When was the last time you ate, or need I ask?" He glanced over one shoulder, peering into the court, its proceedings now playing out in silent pantomime, some perverse street performers' folly put on for the private amusement of a dark and unnamed tyrant. "We need not watch the long parade of character witnesses attesting to Zan Arbor's goodness and generosity."

His Padawan's lip curled in disgust. "Sangu said the prison warden will claim she treated the maladies and injuries of her fellow inmates, _pro bono, _ during her incarceration."

"She may have," Qui-Gon mildly replied, steering his apprentice into the lawyer's office, where a repast had been laid out for their benefit many hours ago. He plucked a stale muja muffin from the tray and tossed it in the young Jedi's direction. "Hers is not the evil of simple malice, but of perverted zeal for a cause. Absolute purity of principle is a thing more dangerous than any other, Padawan."

Obi-Wan turned the sweetbread between his fingers, without appetite, and then set it down. "Is there tea?"

"It's cold," the older man sighed.

Stymied, the Padawan crossed his arms and glowered at the heavy furnishings in the dark-paneled room. "Of course it is," he growled, with a hint of truculence. "Every blasted thing in this star-forsaken building is _useless."_

The Jedi master's brows rose, though a sympathetic smile lurked at the corners of his eyes. "The hour is late; I am certain Zhudii will call an end to the day soon. Let us meditate together until then."

"Yes, master."

* * *

The much anticipated adjournment did at last arrive, well past sunset – by which time the main courthouse plaza was packed to overflowing with a ravening mob of holo-reporters, eager onlookers, and unruly agitants.

The Jedi pushed their way past the crowds, the throng having overflowed the bounds of the cordoned area beside the main stairwell and pressed its way up to the very doors. Qui-Gon Jinn's intimidating presence was sufficient to carve a narrow channel through moving quicksand of bodies and harshly shouted demands. Obi-Wan wisely followed in the tall man's wake, casting a warning scowl at those who snatched his cloak sleeve or hollered slogans in his ear as he passed. He and his master had dealt with worse – far worse – on diplomatic missions elsewhere in the galaxy; he blocked out the influx of rampant hostility and raw, fearful _resentment_ wafting on the disturbed Force. It would be unwise to over-react - after all, this was not a situation calling for _aggressive negotiations._

And then, suddenly, it was.

He had barely time to register the approaching threat – the Force's warning muted and confused by the chaotic surge of emotion on every side – and he had _no space_ in which to draw his saber, restored to its owner mere minutes previously, as they passed through the security checkpoint. People screamed and panicked, stampeding in all directions, stumbling and tripping upon one another, as the tiny assailant appeared between their legs, his weapon held at the ready, his tiny stature effectively concealing him from the patrolmen's view.

"Master!"

Qui-Gon moved with him, saber hilt gripped in his hand but not activated, bodies crushing in upon them as overwrought citizens vied to escape a cloud of gas rising at the plaza's edge.

"Fire!" someone shouted.

"Poison!" another wailed.

Soon the entire courtyard seemed to be moving, and the miniature killer with them, flitting and ducking between stamping legs, weaving in and out of sight, as fluid as quicksilver. Qui-Gon went one way, shoving a path through the maddened crowd by sheer force where necessary. Obi-Wan went the other, anticipating the assassin's erratic pathway. The Force shrilled keen with danger, but not from the dark clouds at the platforms' edge, which must be a distraction, a catalyst to spark a riot.

The tiny hunter dodged and wove among the citizens of Coruscant, fleeing and pursuing at once. The Padawan shouldered his way among wildly seething bodies, too close, _far too close_ to risk the saber.

"_Blast it."_ Their opponent was clever, and knew Jedi strengths and weaknesses to a fine point. It was disconcerting to be played so easily, like a youngling put to some cunning task by a Temple master.

The seas of flailing limbs parted, crashed together, rose and fell – and there! Just ahead, the little _cretin_ was making a dash for the edge of the plaza. Turned out of his course by Qui-Gon, he was running now at full tilt, making his escape from an aborted mission. There must be a vehicle just below the edge, waiting for him. He _mustn't_ get away. Obi-Wan laid on speed, jumping over the heads of those at the fringe, squinting through the obscuring haze set up by three decoy smoke-bombs, hurtling straight for his intended target.

The assassin skidded to a halt and reversed direction, diving under the repulsor platform of the fire-service vehicle come to quell the supposed flames. Klaxons shrieked, flamm retardant splattered wildly in the thick air, people screamed. Obi-Wan rolled beneath the next fire-barge, in hot pursuit. There were some stragglers at the edge of the crowd – reporters, protestors, others; the diminutive killer sneered at him over one shoulder and scuttled toward this unprotected knot of victims.

Heart leaping, understanding the tiny creature's wicked intention to distract him by threatening the innocent, the Padawan jumped, sailing overhead and planting himself between the assassin and his prey. He heard Baro Spekkopolos' voice shout out some obscenity behind him; he saw his dwarfish foe lift the dart tube to his mouth, a knowing glint in his eye; his own weapon finally leapt from its hilt, moving before thought or sensation, already blocking the barrage of deadly projectiles, shielding the citizens behind him.

Qui-Gon dropped in behind the killer, 'saber snapping and hissing into a line of vibrant emerald fire.

The cornered assassin tensed… then flung himself over the parapet into thin air.

Obi-Wan did not hesitate; three long strides and a powerful Force-propelled leap carried him over the edge like a thranctill diving for its airborne prey, aloft on sheerest instinct as the wildfire of Light roaring in his blood sent him flying through giddy space on a wave of implacable purpose.


	21. Chapter 21

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

The leap of faith, of mad confidence in the Force, became a headlong fall – a sickening plummet into black depths spangled with frenetic light. The assassin was a blur receding into another blur, a stripe of green-grey-gold metal streaking _this_ way; he twisted, snarling, fingers of one hand extended as though to slow the world's dizzying rush toward him, to countermand the sucking pull of gravity even as his other fist stayed clenched about the 'saber's hilt, its crystal seeming to scream within his blood, the Force alight with the terrifying acceleration – and –

He hit the back of the tiny being's air-car with a solid thump, boots first, the impact cushioned by the Force but still wracking through his bones all the way to his teeth.

And the hurtling craft twisted away beneath him and he tumbled along its length, grasping at something protruding on its side - and then they were both falling sideways, smears of light and air bleeding into one another now, the howl of intakes and repulsors like a ghastly chorus all about him. His feet swung under the air-car, scrabbling for purchase and finding the curve of the stabilizer array. He clung like an insect, inverted above the city's bottomless depths, teeth gritted and muscles burning. The Force rose higher and higher –

And _now_ they were falling upwards together and he was sliding back toward the rear of the small vehicle, losing his grip. The 'saber's blade swung wildly, shearing off the starboard intake scoop.

The thing bucked like a dying beast and threw him loose - then a spinning descent, and _then_ they were falling together side by side, he and the metallic dragon he had slain, plunging deep, deep toward the hells. He could see the assassin's face inside the cockpit, bereft of the mask and cowl. A strange, flat, lizard face, all deep grooves and harsh planes and a pair of eyes like red embers.

In the next instant the killer had seized control of his dying craft again, and its spinning descent slewed it violently into the Padawan, the forward engine housing slamming into his solar plexus. Flattened against the grill, breath knocked clean from his lungs, he rolled helplessly onto the viewport and then over the roof, plunging the saber's tip into the metal and dragging his weight with it, a molten line opening in the thick shell.

They fell in a giddying spiral, grappling with the mangled ship, both of them wrestling life from its dying corpse, heading straight for a crossing network of pipes far below, a pergola frame of heavy durasteel bars.

Obi-Wan let go first; a buffeting blast of hot air gushed geyser-like from some unseen shaft below caught his somersault and unraveled it into an unsteady spin, but he managed to land upon the narrow beams of the pipe-work just as the air-car impacted and plunged through in a deafening wreck, the crash safety bags deploying inside its tiny cockpit. The bars of the framework bent and buckled, snapping apart in places. Scalding liquid and toxic gases rushed into the air. He jumped yet again, dodging the deadly blasts and sliding through the ragged opening after the car.

The scarred and ruined hulk smashed into duracrete pavement below, spattering lubricant and solidifying fuel in a wide puddle. The young Jedi dropped down beside it, sapphire blade thrumming hot and eager in his hand.

* * *

Qui-Gon saw the assassin leap; saw his apprentice follow the would-be killer over the edge of the courthouse plaza, some two hundred stories above Coruscant's distant ground level, and many hundreds more above the true surface; made it to the stone-railed precipice himself in the next heartbeat and then stopped.

_He _at least was past the age of reckless impulsivity. "Blast it, Obi-Wan."

It took him a moment to hail the waiting Temple air-car. Jondo Shauffir, the redoubtable staff pilot, brought the vehicle up against the building's side in violation of all the established traffic laws and waited for the Jedi master to jump in. By which time Baro Spekkopolos and a half-dozen of his professional colleagues had capitalized on the unfolding drama to take a few hundred up-close action shots for the evening holo-net editions.

Qui-Gon had no time to fret about the swarm of cam-bots that attempted to give chase as Jondo steered clear of the pressure buffered no-fly zone surrounding the judiciary complex. He waved the poor pilot into the back seat, clambering over the cramped interior to take the helm himself.

"Better stay down," he advised the unfortunate Temple staff member. If he had any reservations about dragging a non-Jedi into such a risky situation, now was not the time to ponder them. The pilot's graying head disappeared into the foot-space in the back row.

Forty stories downward in a near free-fall drop, and Qui-Gon found the fleeing assassin's vehicle – more in the Force than with his vision, for Coruscant's towering canyons of duracrete were smeared to brilliant columns of light and shrilling noise at this velocity. The air-car groaned beneath him, compensators straining, but the guidance system held. All Temple vehicles were kept in perfect maintenance as a matter of course – he felt no qualms in abusing it to the limit of its endurance.

He laid on speed, wending a dangerous path through oncoming traffic and deftly plummeting through the multitudinous traffic lanes in a precipitous angled descent. Horns blared and passengers screamed, none of them aware how minutely, how perfectly the rogue vehicle was guided by the Force. Even Jondo's cursing was audible over the whistling of air in the Jedi master's ears. He twisted and dove, vainly striving to catch the erratically twisting craft onto which his Padawan had apparently latched like a fledgling thranctill trying to carry away a bantha calf.

_Foolish._ He had a vibrant image of Dooku lambasting him for some similar stunt, what was it? Twenty, thirty… Force above, almost _forty_ years ago now. "Damn it, Obi-Wan!"

He could see, as he curved round the mirrored edifice of a colossal banking firm's headquarters, that the assassin's ship was injured, the starboard stabilizer sheared off entirely. What was the boy _thinking?_

Most likely nothing. The Force was aflame with razored determination, with singular purpose honed to a 'saber's burning edge of purity. In such a moment, all but submerged in the Force, the Padawan would be as far from thought as existentially possible- especially for one of his _ordinarily _cautious temperament.

And then the vehicle and the small figure clinging to it parted ways in mid-air. Qui-Gon's breath came in a sudden gasp; his heart skipped a beat; he swerved wildly to avoid a headlong collision with a freighter. Looping back around, his trusting but terrified passenger yelping in distress, he spotted the place where both mangled air-car and Jedi Padawan had dropped through a delicate network of pipes between two tall factory warehouses.

Between spouts of colored steam and spurting toxic geysers, he could see the entire broken web begin to buckle, bend.. and then collapse, bringing some of the supportive girders and scaffolding with it.

"For the _love of the Force_, Obi-Wan!"

He pulled up and sought the nearest landing-place, heart in his throat. The overheating air car slammed to the roof of the nearest building.

"Are you all right?" he demanded of the breathless pilot crouched in the back-seat.

A dazed nod of affirmation was all he needed to be on his way, vaulting over the car's side and toward the disastrous avalanche of pipes and masonry now filling the narrow canyon between this warehouse and the next.

* * *

Obi-Wan felt it happen before it did; from this position, the sudden collapse of the shattered overhead tracery looked like the sky itself was falling, tumbling down upon his head in a shower of pipes and crumbling stone. He lifted both hands, pushing_ outward_ with the Force, its power tearing through him like a hurricane gale. Dust billowed, metal screamed and groaned, boulders and jagged rocks thundered down on all sides.

Peripherally, he glimpsed the tiny bounty hunter slip into a dark crack in the building's side, just before his world was reduced to a gasping bubble of dark and choking dust, a blackness buried beneath a weighty tombstone of corroded scrap.

His fingers fumbled for his rebreather and found it tucked away in its belt pouch, seldom used and most often forgotten, but at this moment a welcome friend. He clamped it between his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, the awful stinging washing away with his streaming tears. There was _toxic_ dust, gas, liquid everywhere – dripping and pooling and steaming and spattering. He needed to move.

The saber's blade scorched his skin in the tight space, but he gritted his teeth, eyes pressed closed against the acrid and stifling air in this cramped pocket of life, and _cut._ The Force guided his hand, dictated the strokes. Slag dripped and sparks burrowed into his clothing, but he pushed forward, carving a path through the wreckage, a worm-hole wending toward freedom. Overhead, all about, massive weight shifted and groaned, threatening to crush him. He pressed onward, the blue blade shearing a jutting pipe here, a solid obstacle there. With one free hand and sheerest instinct he felt his way forward, all the while counting the long seconds and minutes as his quarry escaped.

At last he hit a solid wall- the outside of the second warehouse. Sucking in a thin and barely sufficient breath through the 'cycler's filters, he plunged his weapon into the wall and _dragged_ it through melting duracrete and plasteel, the heat and stink overbearing, intolerable. The barrier gave way, tumbling inward in molten shards, and he stumbled over the improvised threshold, tugging his cloak off the smoldering edge before it caught fire.

The warehouse within was a vast and echoing cavern, as lightless as empty space.

* * *

The roof access hatch imploded beneath the onslaught of his Force-push. Before the heavy durasteel door had finished clattering its way down all seven flights of stairs, Qui-Gon Jinn was leaping down the narrow well between the spiraling metallic steps, reaching the ground floor in a controlled landing crouch just before the heavy object slithered and banged to a halt several meters away.

The warehouse within was a vast and echoing cavern, as lightless as empty space - but he could feel Obi-Wan clearly across the void.

And another presence, too. The tiny bounty hunter had not fled after all, but stayed to play a game of felix and rodens among the rafters and derelict manufacturing equipment.

_Foolish._

He reached out through the plenum, touching his apprentice's mind.

_Master! _ came the startled response. _He's here. Behind me._

_Let him come to you._ Qui-Gon sprang for the nearest support beam beneath the darkened ceiling. Vast cobwebs dragged at him, muffled his footfalls as he balanced upon the ledge, creeping lightly overhead toward the other side of the building. Though outwardly blind, he yet followed Obi-Wan's bright beacon in the Force, stealthily approaching the place where the diminutive tribal huntsman also would appear, ready to ambush the ambusher.

Obi-Wan waited, weapon concealed in its hilt, breath escaping in a hot and soundless wafting, every nerve tuned to the slightest disturbance in the universal energy. He knew exactly where Qui-Gon was overhead, exactly where the bounty hunter crept behind the rotting storage crates of eons past, thinking himself undetected, unexpected.

His hand tightened about the 'saber's hilt as he felt the tiny assassin ready his poison dart gun. A little closer, a little closer…

The needles sliced through the air – silent, invisible, deadly. The blue blade leapt into life, howling in a wide deflective circle, carving a screaming shield of light. Qui-Gon launched himself in a broad arc, emerald blade a bolt of jade lightning as he soared for the assassin's place of concealment.

The dwarf huntsman scuttled away, knocking packing crates aside as he fled. Obi-Wan leapt to intercept him, weapon blurring to a fearsome sheet of light as he swept it in a warning flourish.

The killer changed directions, fluid as the shadows playing over rusted hulks of machinery and fallen beams… and then disappeared through the floor.

"Obi-Wan!" the Jedi master barked, a sharp flare of danger sizzling in the Force.

But too late – the Padawan had dropped into the opening after the assassin, plunging feet-first into the narrow pit without fear or hesitation.

Qui-Gon reached the edge of the disused smelting furnace chute and growled his frustration. The aperture was too narrow to admit his shoulders – indeed, even Obi-Wan must _barely_ fit through. This tunnel would issue onto a subterranean level beneath the main building; as such, it must once have had a maintenance entry. He pounded across the factory floor in search of the gutted lift shafts.

No number of laps about the Temple perimeter nor hours of kitchen duty would atone for this _utterly reckless_ folly. He reached the gaping sockets of an elevator system, and shot a liquid cable into the rusted support struts at their summit before rappelling down into inky darkness.

* * *

The narrow tunnel plunged deep into the earth, its smooth sides pressing slickly against his own as he shot down its length. At the far extremity, it opened slightly, so that he could barely touch the edges with his fingertips as he hurtled faster and faster toward some unknown end. Obi-Wan gripped his 'saber's hilt and flicked the weapon into life. The plasma blade spat blue fury along the rushing curve of blackened metal, a ghostly luminance falling alongside him into oblivion. Grunting, he twisted and plunged the hot point straight into the rounded wall, molten spatters flying in his face, a deafening shriek echoing up the long tube as the blade dragged a long gash into the side of the tunnel, a terrible burning scar carved as he fell, his weight and impetus nearly loosing the hilt from his fingers. Sparks showered about him, bit into his flesh, fell like rain below him into the waiting dark.

At the very end, the chute flared into a funnel-shaped dome. Feeling the walls give way around him, Obi-Wan tucked and rolled, somersaulting into a Force-cushioned landing upon some hard surface, accompanied by a meteor-shower of sapphire sparks, a comet crashing to earth amid its own spangled glory.

In the light of this radiant nimbus, he saw the assassin's grooved and contorted face leer at him across the ruined furnace pit. The dart gun was already in place, the dart already streaking toward its target.

He blocked, parried, spun in wild anticipation of the attack, the Force singing with his blade.

One needle-like projectile winged past on the left side, and found its mark above his collarbone. Triumphant, the tiny huntsman yelped and cavorted, only to stumble backward in horror as his foe surged forward, unimpeded.

The saber flashed and danced, a maddened dervish carving a circle of destruction. The dart gun was severed, the hunter flung against a wall and pinned, the thrumming line of blue fire pressed close against his neck.

Obi-Wan stepped in close, now holding his captive with his physical hand, fingers clenched in the rough weave of the creature's body wrappings. A pair of slitted eyes widened in horror as they gazed at each other across the pulsing sapphire blade.

"You – you are a _dead man!"_ the defeated assassin spat in a rasping voice. "'The _jho'khal –_ how do you stand and live?"

A fierce grin. "Rather well, don't you think?" The saber wavered slightly, pressing closer.

"Mercy! I have dishonored myself – you are _meshaar, _ warrior of the tribe. Spare me and I am slave to you!"

The Padawan relaxed his grip, allowing the tiny being to slide to the cold floor. He had never seen another of its kind, and wondered whether the hunter were a native of Rugosa, as his choice of weapon would suggest.

"I will not kill you in cold blood," he told his prisoner. But what _would _ he do, now that he had him cornered here? Arrest him? Demand information?

The defeated hunter beat a tiny fist against his breast. "My life is yours, _meshaar_ Jedi… command me as slave." It wrenched loose a talisman from about its neck and proffered the glinting object to its captor.

A _life debt_? He could not possibly….

….unless…

Qui-Gon's footsteps sounded from the far end of this underworld cavern. ObiWan crouched, face to face with his vanquished foe. "I hold you to that," he growled, fingers closing about the carven emblem. "Now go. And say _nothing_ about this to your superiors."

Eyes widening, the hunter deferently touched his forehead to the Padawan's hand, - and then fled, scuttling into the shadows between shadows, liquid as spilled ink.

Qui-Gon halted beside him. "Obi-Wan." A half-second's hesitation, in which the Jedi master took a step in the direction the diminutive assassin had gone, and then another in which he did a double take and stepped back, dropping to one knee beside his apprentice.

"I'm all right," the Padawan asserted, plucking the dart from his neck. It _did_ hurt.. a trifle…

Qui-Gon's fingers whisked the poison needle from his grasp. A long exhalation, edged with vibrant concern. "Can you stand?"

"Of course I can, master." And he did. Only a bit unsteadily. Perhaps he was not quite so _immune_ as he had hoped.

An arm was thrust beneath his shoulders. "We need to get out of here."

The blackness seemed to fade into itself, warping about the edges as they made for the lift shaft. Qui-Gon's grip tightened.

""It's a scratch. Nothing to worry about, " Obi-Wan insisted. "Truly, master."

Qui-Gon merely grunted some dubious rebuttal and dragged him onward and upward, the darkness and the chase and the assassin blurring into a feverish and surreal dream.


	22. Chapter 22

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Jondo Shauffir had obligingly spent the intervening time nursing the overwrought Temple air-car back to health, or at least functionality. He slammed the access panels shut when the two Jedi limped into view across the rubble-strewn rooftop.

"Back home, Master Jinn?" he inquired, eyes shifting from the visibly sagging Padawan back to the tall man.

"With all speed. Thank you." Qui-Gon shoved his apprentice into the rear passenger compartment and slid in beside him, a steadying hand on the young man's back.

They lifted into the glowing canyon and headed toward the glittering reaches of the open skies nearly a kilometer above, warm air buffeting them as they climbed between the blasted out foundations of the city-planet.

"You know I hate it when you do that," the Jedi master quietly chided his miserable protégé.

Obi-Wan, aching head held between his hands, muttered his apology. "I'm truly sorry, master."

"What in stars' name possessed you to give chase in such a _foolhardy_ manner?" the tall man continued, softly enough that their words would not carry to the pilot in the front row. "You might easily have been killed. Indeed, you seem to have taken special pains to tempt fate in that respect. And for what?"

"The Force prompted me, master… I wasn't really _thinking…_ you always say –"

"I have never said _jump off a cliff, Obi-Wan."_

"You did on Niffrendi," his apprentice reminded him, churlishly. "And you _pushed_ me off that repulsor platform on my fifteenth life-day. I still have dreams about that."

"Niffrendi was different." A wildfire had, in fact, threatened to consume them, and they had taken the only available path of escape. "There was no need to risk your life tonight in order to apprehend one insignificant mercenary."

"It was important, master!" Obi-Wan insisted.

Qui-Gon's brows shot upward. "Important enough to merit a two-hundred story drop?" he challenged, relief and worry finding a shared outlet in his hard-edged words.

Irrepressible, Obi-Wan smirked. "I had to get to the bottom of this?" he offered.

The older man's hand closed hard about his apprentice's knee. He was, truth be told, alarmed at his own alarm. "Next time we fall _together,"_ he decided. "And I will accept no argument on the matter."

Obi-Wan slumped a little further forward.

"Are you using your purging techniques?"

A brief nod.

A slew of other questions remained unanswered between them; Qui-Gon had seen the diminutive assassin disappear into the building's shadows after his Padawan had purposefully let him go, and he had seen the exchange of some primitive talisman, perhaps a symbol of life-debt for the mercy extended. But present crisis relegated the explication of these mysteries to second priority. "We are headed straight to Ben To when we arrive. He'll be thrilled to see you, after the long day he endured in court."

A pathetic moan, almost enough to inspire pity in his overwrought heart.

"You could have been killed," he growled again, the accusation a thin disguise for something else.

Obi-Wan leaned into him, abandoning all pretense of _being fine._ "…uuungh, master."

Qui-Gon released his anxiety on a long exhalation and peered through the gloom of Coruscant's night, where the Temple spires stood like white beacon torches atop the colossal monument of tradition. "Just a bit further, my reckless brat."

* * *

"Sweet merciful Force, Padawan... what in stars' name have you been doing this time?" Ben To Li muttered, both gnarled hands pressed against either side of his patient's face as he probed deep with the Force's healing energies.

Obi-Wan swayed where he sat. Qui-Gon steadied him from behind. "A bit of hand to hand combat in the underlevels," the Jedi master supplied, succinctly. "The scratches are from a poisoned thorn. _Micohastae veniferosi."_

Ben To's bristling silver brows leapt upward. "What? Between the judiciary compound and here?" He grumbled something else inaudible, under his breath. "Only you, Kenobi. You must have gone looking for trouble in strange places."

"Opportunity presented itself, and he _jumped_ at it," Qui-Gon grunted, eliciting only a feeble snort of amusement from his apprentice. "Obi-Wan. Stay awake."

"Well, per usual, he should be dead," the healer grunted, relinquishing his grip. The Padawan slumped forward, and he caught the young Jedi by the shoulders. "Now then. Here, Qui-Gon, just ease him back here. You-" he barked at the attendant droid. "Bring thermal blankets and a detox kit. He's up to the eyeballs in toxins, but his natural immune response is impressive – in fact, I've seldom seen such a thing. Here you are, boy, just relax. And don't drift off. Look at me, that's right."

"I used an immature spine," Obi-Wan slurred. "Inoculation."

Ben To ran a hand over his face. "You young _idiot._"

"You see, Padawan? It's a medically established fact."

Obi-Wan groaned in protest.

"Don't sleep," Qui-Gon warned, as the healer made himself busy behind them. "Stay focused. Recite the Lotus-of-Docile-Youth mantra backwards."

His apprentice squinted up at him dubiously. "No such," he objected. "That's bantha chisszk, master."

The tall man's brows shot upward at this uncharacteristically crass declaration. He leaned in close. "So is _protecting _yourself against deadly venom with a preventative low dose, my young friend."

Ben To chuckled heartily. "Now, now, Qui-Gon. He hasn't fared too badly. Between that half-baked folk custom and his natural Force-enhanced purification techniques, he's actually managed to neutralize most the initial toxin." He moved in for the kill, armed with the tools of his trade.

Qui-Gon tugged on his Padawan's braid. "No you don't – stay with us. Wake up."

"….yes, mast-… ow!"

"Be quiet, boy, it's your own fault - the difficulty," Ben To prattled on while he continued his brusque ministrations with abstract professional detachment, "is that these sort of organic compounds degrade into secondary chemical byproducts – ah, ah! No sleeping yet, Padawan, you're going to be very sick in a quarter-hour and I am _not_ carrying you to the 'fresher."

"Master," Obi-Wan plaintively muttered.

"We reap what we sow," Qui-Gon blithely rebuffed his plea for sympathy.

Master Li spoke quietly to the older man. "You needn't stay. Once his system is done purging he'll sleep like a baby. I'll look after him."

"I am grateful, Ben To – but I'll linger. Is …she..?"

The healer sighed. "I am sorry. She has not woken all day." His dark eyes softened. "If you wish to wait there…. I shall pretend not to notice."

A deep bow sealed their truce. "Thank you," Qui-Gon murmured.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Ben To Li rejoined him as he sat watching over Tahl, her wasted features limned in pale phosphorescence by the dimmed emergency lights, rendering her ghostly and insubstantial.

Qui-Gon dragged his mournful gaze from the once-familiar face and raised his eyes to the senior healer.

Ben To nodded. "Your Padawan is out cold, and he should be quite recovered come morning. Where he got the addle-pated notion to immunize himself against such attack I don't care to ask…. But I'll admit it seems to have saved his life in this instance. You can rest easy tonight, or what's left of it."

The tall man nodded his thanks. "I'll stay here, if you don't mind. And thank you, Ben To – I am sorry to disturb you at such an hour, and after such a grueling day."

The healer stroked his short, pointed beard. "The courts? That's nothing. I'd have said a fair bit more had the judge permitted. Midichlorian _transfer – phhsst._" He sighed. "When will sentients ever renounce the hubristic quest for immortality, or some share in it? Any attempt to harness the Force to one's will is nothing short of the same."

Qui-Gon's gaze returned to the skeletal frame of his life-long friend. "Ben To," he began, soberly. "Have you ever heard or read of the Order of Whills?"

"Ah." A pair of bristling brows crept upward. "I have."

The cautious answer gave nothing away. Qui-Gon pressed his point. "They are said to have taught a doctrine of immortality… a pathway beyond death. Do you know of this?"

Master Li pulled a stool across the room with a flick of his wrist, and settled beside the other man. He laid a hand upon Qui-Gon's arm. "My friend," he said, gently. "I have nursed more Jedi into death than you can dream of – it is part and parcel of my calling. Think on this. And I tell you: this is nothing to grieve over."

The Jedi master's leonine features rumpled into a pained scowl. "Where Light is extinguished, Ben To, the Dark creeps in to replace it. How is this not a cause for grief?"

The healer sighed. "I would insult you if I were to reply. You are a Master of this Order – you know the teachings. You have embraced them. Take a care to recall them now… it is not only Padawans who require instruction; from time to time, we must tutor ourselves, even in that which we already know."

A silence settled between them, in which their breaths fell unconsciously into rhythm with the slow and pained laboring of Tahl's chest beneath the thin coverlet, the ephemeral veil separating her from the other side of existence, from the Force itself. Qui-Gon's head bent, weight settling upon him like piled snow, bending the boughs of his compassion nearly to breaking.

"I will keep my oath, Qui-Gon, if there is more you wish to be unburdened of."

A healer swore to safeguard the privacy of those in his care…. he was thus a safe confessor.

A silvering mane fell over broad shoulders as Qui-Gon sank his head into two broad hands. "Force forgive me, Ben To….. I…I love her."

The words hung stark in the cycled air, a defiance so quiet it was nearly inaudible, so egregious and arrogant that it threatened to echo through the Temple's very foundations, a brash trumpet of _rebellion, _of reckless passion. Qui-Gon Jinn was a great Jedi… and he did nothing in tepid moderation.

Ben To Li closed his eyes. "You are not the first to taste such bitterness," he said, heavily. "And there is no cure."

"Then I too am dying."

"Perhaps…. But you would be a vast fool, Jinn, to forget that a young life still depends on you. If you would seek _immortality, _ then seek it in honor, and in those yet to come. The Whills, if their Order still exists, might not tell you any differently."

The tall man dropped his hands, letting them hang limply between his knees, their powerful knotted tendons and muscles completely helpless to reverse fate, to protect or to save. "Perhaps not."

"I think certainly not." Ben To stood. "I am an old man, and in need of sleep. Can I leave you here in good conscience? Call one of the apprentice healers or the med droid if you need anything."

Qui-Gon nodded, a grateful dismissal, and returned to his lonely vigil.

* * *

Just before dawn, Obi-Wan tottered into the doorframe. Wrapped in his cloak and a thermal blanket, bare-foot, hair mashed into a shapeless sculpture, a flush of illness high on his cheeks, he would have resembled the ten-year old Qui-Gon had first met in the Temple clan dormitory – had it not been for the haggard shadows haunting his grief-hollowed eyes.

"Master?"

He waved the young man inside.

"I felt a disturbance," Obi-Wan offered, in explanation, though none was needed. The Force was vibrant with a strange anguish, the final birth-pangs shuddering through the plenum, through their very blood and bones.

Tahl gasped, her sightless eyes fluttering open for the last time.

"Qui-Gon…. Qui."

Heart leaping against his ribs, the Jedi master leaned down until her feeble breath stirred in his hair. A pained line between her brows, Tahl's voice rasped over her tongue and teeth, a raw scraping of air against desiccated flesh. "Not here… Qui."

"Master?"

He shook his head. There was a time for the healers, and a time when no skill, no extremity of devotion whatsoever, could further delay that which had been ordained. Obi-Wan subsided, a tragic understanding stamped upon his youthful features.

"The gardens," Qui-Gon decided, lifting Tahl into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder, one veined and bony foot peeping out beneath the trailing hem of a blanket. He gathered her to his chest and moved into the corridor, where an apprentice healer took one look at his face and fled in the opposite direction, presumably to fetch Ben To or some other authority figure.

But by the time reinforcements had been summoned, they were well on their way and out the doors.

There was a place in the mezzanine level outdoor gardens where a rough-hewn rock fountain stood encircled by_ iriel_ trees, their black and knotted branches bare of leaves, but decked in the most exquisite finery of vermillion and burgundy blossoms, each flower a delicate masterpiece clinging to the gnarled boughs. This stately colonnade had grown over the interior grotto until it was roofed in a fretted tapestry of light and shadow cast by the garden's soft glowlamps, and carpeted in fallen petals. The Living Force chimed here, sonorous with the water's lament.

Qui-Gon sank down in the very center, near the quietly mourning fountain, and encircled Tahl's limp form in his arms. "Do you know where we are?" he asked her.

Obi-Wan knelt a pace away, brown cloak cascading onto the soft lawn beneath them, darkness pooling beneath a canopy of pale, mottled light.

Tahl's sigh rattled into a weak cough. "Here," she answered, lips curving slightly upward.

The Padawan's lowered his eyes, sensing the trespass upon a private sanctuary, an intrusion upon personal symbol.

But Tahl's hand fluttered, grasping in his direction. "Obi-Wan," she whispered.

Obedient, he slid forward until he held her trembling fingers clasped between his own, as lightly as he might hold an injured bird. Outwardly, the ghostly light danced upon them, death's fingers brushing lightly against their senses as a pre-dawn breeze stirred the tangled roof; inward Light leapt high, setting a piled kindling to flame.

Tahl's grip tightened into a spasm, and he held tight. Qui-Gon grunted softly, absorbing some of her pain into his own body. She gasped, and Light burned higher, consuming.

"Obi-Wan," Tahl said again, the words a mere caress of soundless syllables. "Sweet-heart. Brave heart."

"I'm here, master." His own speech crumbled into a dusty whimper. Pain flared among them equally, resounding across the Force. Tahl groaned, and Light danced wildly, consuming gross matter, freeing the luminous spirit.

"Stay on the path," she commanded. Obi-Wan nodded mutely, pouring out a last offering of all that had never been spoken. Tahl's presence cradled his, a last mental touch caressing his soul, even as Light blurred its edges into universal fire.

Qui-Gon bowed his head, his forehead touching hers, their faces a trembling breath apart.

"Tahl. I was never worthy… you have been a polestar to a foolish pilgrim."

Her answer, if any, remained furled within the Force, where only they two might hear it.

An echoing plea sounded in three intertwined hearts. "I wish…"

"No," she croaked. "Qui. Let go."

And then the moment of parting came, Light poised to strike the final, severing blow, the severance of an umbilicum, the cutting of an invisible braid.

"Let this be my last moment," Tahl breathed against Qui-Gon's cheek, her hand still curled about Obi-Wan's.

And with these words, Jedi Master Tahl Uvain died, and became one with the Force itself, her mortal shell left cold and lumpen in the arms of those who had loved her.

The Force wept invisibly; the trees wept their blossoms, raining down blood-red flowers in a slow cascade, every branch suddenly bared of its splendor; the sky wept gold and crimson luminance, a broken dawn rising sorrowful in the cloud-scudded heavens above; Qui-Gon Jinn wept human tears, silver trails running into his beard as he hunched over her lifeless body. And Obi-Wan looked on in stunned anguish, unable to move, or to speak, or to even to weep.

And the sun rose higher in Coruscant's grief-stained sky, and the healers found the hushed grotto and gently pulled them away, and time and destiny rolled onward toward the future's infinite vanishing point, where all disparate and suffering things were at last reunited.


	23. Chapter 23

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 23**

After the healers took away her body, master and apprentice remained in the gardens, Qui-Gon wandering the stately paths without apparent aim, Obi-Wan trailing devotedly behind… for what else would he do? A quiet scream had begun building behind his temples, a reverberation carried across the Force, across his bond with the Jedi master. It seeped and expanded into headache, and then into nausea, and then into a dulling _pressure_ that closed about his every cell, the very fiber of his psyche, until he was certain the combined and obscenely magnified weight of their grief – though there was no emotion, no passion – would bring them both crashing to their knees.

And eventually it did, in one of the meditation grottos on the garden's far side, under the Temple boundary wall's shadow. And there the pressure built until it occupied the totality of experience and memory, and obliterated all else, razing down feeling and thought in the wake of its awful majesty, leaving behind a pure and joyless void, an absence of _anything_ at all. And that was almost a relief. Qui-Gon did not move, the lines of his face carved deep, the curved set of his shoulders and back that of a gravely wounded man.

"Master."

No answer, no acknowledgment but the faintest glimmer of recognition in the Force. Obi-Wan knelt, silently attentive a half-meter behind his teacher as the Jedi master communed with the Living Force, perhaps attempting to find within its infinite depths the familiar touch of one who must now be counted part of its ubiquitous but veiled radiance.

"…Master?"

But he knew already that _his_ need to offer succor was a desire springing from his own weakness, and not his beloved mentor's – for surely Qui-Gon Jinn would find solace in the universal Force that was both foundation and pinnacle of his being? He was no green Padawan who might against his better nature pine for the comfort that mortal flesh might offer. Besides, what great font of compassion had he, Obi-Wan, from which to pour salve into another's wounded core? At this moment, the wellsprings of his empathy were dry as bone, scoured and emptied, scourged clean of every emotion, every passion, every comfortable shade of ignorance. He was too full of nothingness to admit any thought or feeling into his soul – and so, glutted on this novel emptiness, he was abundantly, achingly full of a sickly, blank and benumbing mockery of peace.

Even that one shocking glimpse of Qui-Gon' tears could wring none from his own eyes.

"Master?"

Still no reply.

At length a second presence – skillfully muted, quietly observant – folded itself down beside him. He felt the brush of questing mental fingers against his shields, heard a voice echoing softly down the awful depths of his hollowed tranquility.

"Come along, Padawan." Ben To Li's gnarled hand applied a firm pressure to his shoulder, encouraging.

He found himself somehow on his feet, docilely following behind the old Jedi, his footsteps beating out a dull rhythm upon the groomed garden path, his Force-compacted bond with Qui-Gon a persistent howling undercurrent pulling him inexorably toward the black abyss over which the Jedi master hung suspended by a tenuous skein of Light.

Unfeeling, all but unseeing, he passed through the gardens and into the Temple proper, through corridors and pillared concourses, across a plaza and up wide steps, over an open hall and beneath a double arch, all the way back to the healers' domain.

"Obi! Obi, are you all right?"

As from an unfathomable depth, he summoned up a fitting reply for his generous, sweet-natured friend. "She is one with the Force, Bant. It's…. fine. I rejoice for her." His serenity flowed clear and strong from the hidden places in existence, out of wisdom's bedrock. Weightless, gutted, his heart floated idly upon the swell, spinning a little in the invisible eddies.

Bant's liquid silver eyes widened a trifle. "He seems a bit peaked, master…. I mean, is it the poison still, or… ?"

"He'll be all right." Ben To's brusque confidence allowed no room for doubt in either young Jedi. "Now then. Kenobi, you just lie down there. Good. And Bant – you run the scanners, that's right. …Just a routine follow-up, Padawan, don't make a fuss. We just need to be certain there's nothing left inside you."

Obi-Wan frowned. Well, _of course_ there was nothing left inside him ; he wondered how long it would take to ascertain this obvious fact. When the pair of healers had done with their routine poking and prodding, they both lingered a moment, hands resting lightly upon his chest and limbs as though he might float away, buoyed by emptiness, adrift in the passionless, nameless ocean of being. A thought: what if his unmoored spirit did wander beyond past Coruscant's cerulean dome, up into the endless realms of Dark?

"Obi?" Bant sounded genuinely alarmed.

He smiled for her. He was fine. Truly.

"Don't center on your anxieties, Bant," Ben To advised.

Words of wisdom. Even without compass or ballast or guiding star, a Jedi always had the anchor-weight of duty. "I have to attend court today," Obi-Wan croaked. Purpose. What _must be done._ He might not feel, but he could still _act._

"Yes, yes," the healer muttered, double checking some instrument read-out in the far corner. Bant leaned over his shoulder, momentarily freeing her friend from critical inspection.

_Master. Master! _ he called, only to flounder in a renewed tide of anguish flooding over Qui-Gon's mental barriers, a black and choking whirlpool threatening to suck down even the splintered, gasping Light. Dizzy, drowning in another's pain, he rolled onto his side and blocked out the connection, shutting his mind against the torrent of regret and seedling despair. In the aftermath he lay panting, emptier than ever, the Jedi master's grief having sloughed the last dregs of emotion from his soul.

Time must have passed, for Bant's webbed hand was stroking his forehead, her familiar salty scent wafting over his dulled senses. "I don't think you're in any condition to go," she remonstrated. .

He surged upward and sat, a simple task because there was so very little of _him_ left to manage, and so much of the Force rushing in to fill the vacuum his thoughts and desires had once occupied. "It's what I'm doing, Bant. I _will_ go."

The Mon Cal issued some spluttering objection, but Master Li overrode this protest with a curt wave, dark eyes bespeaking a profound understanding.

"Very well," he snorted at his erstwhile patient. "Then get going."

"My master…," Obi-Wan began.

"Tsk!" the healer scolded him. "Mind on the moment. Focus, Padawan! If you intend to _go_ as you so obstinately declare that you are, you need a washing up. Fresh attire. Breakfast, for stars' sake. Not to mention means of transport. Come along, come along, you've no time for argument."

Stunned into submission, the young Jedi permitted Ben To to bully him through his ablutions, a hasty meal, and straight out the med-ward's doors and through the Temple's warren-like corridors to the south docking bay.

"My master," the Padawan tried once again.

"I'll send him along if and when he recovers his wits, Now: let's obtain a vehicle for you." The healer slewed about, and flagged down the requisitions droid. "Good morning," he addressed the supercilious automaton when it hovered into range, "Padawan Kenobi requires a private air-car for use in the city. Destination judicial sector, return within one standard half-cycle."

The robotic clerk issued a cybertronic sniff. "The last craft issued to Padawan Kenobi was returned in sub-optimal condition and had to be temporarily decommissioned. A replacement will be available within two standard days; we are lamentably overbooked at the moment."

Obi-Wan gestured impatiently to the rows of unoccupied vehicles lined up in the fueling bay just behind them. "You haven't _anything_ available?" he scoffed.

Affronted, the droid drew itself up. "_Those_ are reserved for full ranking Jedi on active mission status," it snipped. "_You_ are looking at a significant wait time in that respect."

Had he not been devoid even of the caustic promptings of wit, he might have inquired of the obstreperous droid what the _wait time_ for delivery of replacement _limbs_ might be…. But as it was, he merely fixed the thing with a dully sarcastic glower, brooding upon the apparent impasse with cynical detachment.

A purposeful stride echoed upon the polished decks, approaching them from the interior doors.

"MX-3," drawled a voice of velveted authority, "Padawan Kenobi and I require a private air car immediately."

The requisitions droid turned to Yan Dooku, optic plates gleaming with an aggrieved intensity. "Destination and approximate time of return?" it demanded in a sour warble.

The Sentinel's brows beetled together. "My own business," he told it. "You have one minute to accommodate my _request."_ The last phrase was delivered with sufficient corrosive irony to break through even MX-3's uncooperative programming parameters.

The stubborn droid promptly surrendered the ignition coder for a sleek and recently upgraded model, humming away upon its dignity, and pausing only once to cast a single pointed stare in the Padawan's direction before retreating down the long aisle of waiting vehicles.

Having witnessed this exchange with one hand discreetly covering his mouth as he stroked his beard, Ben To Li bowed curtly to the senior Council member and took his leave, hustling away to his innumerable pressing duties in the Halls of Healing.

Dooku tossed the ignition cylinder to his young companion. "I presume your repertoire of piloting skills _does_ encompass moderation and caution," he remarked dryly, leading the way to their assigned conveyance. "We would not wish to prove our friend's poor estimation of your trustworthiness a merited prejudice."

Too empty to raise any objection, Obi-Wan merely fell into step beside him. "Yes, master."

* * *

A little-known shortcut through a disused section of the city enabled them to bypass the worst of Coruscant's dreadful rush hour air-traffic.

"I've not come this way before," Obi-Wan remarked, eyeing the tawdry surroundings with distaste.

"I should think not," Dooku replied. "Though you have acquired overnight fame for your more spectacular exploits in the lower levels."

"What do you mean, master?"

"Ah." the Sentinel leaned back in the passenger seat, silvering brows twitching upward with sardonic amusement. "I take it you did not find time to peruse the latest holo-net tripe. You, Padawan, are an instant celebrity. Your acrobatics last night have earned you wild popular accolades."

"I'm thrilled."

Dooku's grey eyes glinted. "I believe the catch phrase appended to the footage was _Troubled Hero Thwarts Terrorist Attack, Risks Life for Common Folk._ It has quite turned public opinion in your favor again."

"Spekkopolos," the young Jedi growled.

"Do not underestimate the power of demagoguery," Dooku advised him. "An avalanche composed of insignificant pebbles is a nuisance nonetheless. It is wise to find the _high ground_ when battling the ignorant masses – their passions always run downhill."

Obi-Wan settled into a grim silence, piloting them into the more populous upper regions of the city-planet. "Even public opinion in favor of the Order will not have much bearing on the trial's outcome," he observed, after an extended period of brooding.

"Agreed," the Sentinel responded. He shifted sideways to regard his young companion carefully. "Tell me, Kenobi. Now that you have seen and heard what specious parody of justice the courts have to offer, what would you do had you the chance to strike down Arbor once and for all?"

A dangerous question. Obi-Wan gripped the yoke. In the absence of emotion, his will seemed honed to a lethal acuity, no sentiment or thought present to dull the edge of his determination. "I would implore the Force to help me."

Dooku tilted his head to the side, assessing. "To help you _what?"_

"To help me _serve_ its will, as a Jedi."

The older man's mouth curved in a cold smile. "Not that your action would serve much purpose beyond the immediate moment. It behooves us to be _long-sighted_ when dealing with such an insidious threat, particularly one allied so closely to the galaxy's hidden powers."

"I know that, master." In the absence of feeling, his intuition was bright and keen as a saber's blade, no caution or affection present to mute the hot plasma beam of analytical clarity, the merciless razor separating truth and falsehood. "Zan Arbor is only one head of a monster with many. I would find the _heart_."

"And burn it out?"

Obi-Wan glanced sideways. He would be alarmed, had he not been so numb.

"Do not feign squeamishness, Padawan. I have fought with you and seen you fight."

It was clear Dooku meant far more than _saberplay._

"I would do what the Force dictates. What must be done."

The Sentinel looked past him, past the visible itself. "The Force shapes its servants according to need. Some are healers, some scholars, some teachers, some diplomats and peacekeepers. But some… a few in each generation… are its chosen _blades._ The keepers of Light. And these are times in which Darkness again creeps nigh."

A thrill passed down the Padawans' spine, an awful certitude clawing at the foundations of his awareness. He breathed out, focusing on the traffic pattern, on the _present moment._

"I have always thought you would make a fine Shadow. A guardian of Light. But this is not the time to discuss such matters." Dooku astutely gauged the limit of his companion's endurance and danced on that precipice only a moment longer before withdrawing his attack. "I sense that other matters weigh upon you."

_Tahl...Oh, Tahl._ Obi-Wan said nothing.

"Where evil strikes to kill, good does not stand passively and let the blow fall, Padawan."

The words fell in his empty spirit like wind-borne seeds upon a parched plain, fruitless now but waiting only for the nourishing gift of timely rain, of exiled passion, to quicken them to swift-growing life.

Dooku seemed content with his planting. He adopted a lighter tone. "I hope you will not mind if I inquire after the outcome of your, ah… daring leap last night."

The seeming change of subject came as a welcome relief. "It was the same assassin that pursued us last time – the one with the primitive dart gun. I chased him down into the Underlevels. Well, I fell with him into the Underlevels," Obi-Wan amended.

"Hm," Dooku commented, an elegant sweep of his fingers signaling that the Padawan should continue.

"And we fought in the basement of an abandoned factory. He used the same weapon as before, and I let one of the needles hit me." He touched his collarbone briefly, tugging his tunic's collar away from the still-inflamed patch of skin. "The inoculation worked, master." he added. "Well, from a certain point of view. Master Li expressed his opinion very vibrantly. He considers the technique _stupid."_

"He is free to consider what he likes," the Sentinel drawled. "Healers are notoriously opposed to the necessary costs of _action."_

"Yes, Master Dooku. And the assassin was taken quite off guard when I didn't keel over on the spot. I subdued him and he proclaimed me a warrior of his tribe, and pledged me a life debt. I have a talisman to seal it."

This revelation brought a genuine look of surprise to the older man's aquiline face. "Impressive," he murmured. "Most impressive."

They lifted above the roofs of the highest structures in the sub-district, flirting with the low-lying fog swirling in the upper reaches. Other traffic lanes moved like ghosts in the mist. "I intend to hold him to it, master. He works for Zan Arbor, and more remotely Sifo-Dyas. He can lead us to the _heart_ of the monster."

Dooku pressed his lips together. "Us?" he queried softly. "I do not think Qui-Gon or the Council will approve your involvement beyond the needful communication with this contact of yours. But the Sentinels will be most grateful for your resourcefulness and cunning."

Obi-Wan frowned a little. "I have dealt with Syfo-Dyas before," he pointed out. "I feel… _obliged_ to hunt him down. For all that he has done. For all that he plans to do. He _must_ be stopped."

"And you must be the one to do all which must be done?"

The Padawan shrugged. "I would welcome the opportunity."

"I am sure." Another inscrutable smile. "As I said, you are _called_ by the Force to a certain path. It is obvious to me, if not to others."

Uneasily, the young Jedi broached another topic. "Master Qui-Gon," he began –

But at that moment the judiciary complex swam into view among the rolling sea of clouds.

"Ah. Here we are," Dooku said. "Let us dock in the restricted zone on the roof. I have no stomach for media histrionics this morning."

"…Yes, master."


	24. Chapter 24

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 24**

It was late when he arrived back at the Temple.

"Master?"

The door slid closed behind him; Obi-Wan peered through the darkened apartment, seeking Qui-Gon through the Force. He turned his steps to the balcony.

A warm night breeze lifted the tall man's unbound hair and stirred the silvering strands. A pair of knotted hands clenched the railing tightly. The Padawan moved into place beside him, shoulder to shoulder, a mute offering of solidarity.

"Where have you been? Did you return to court?"

Ordinarily there would have been no need to ask – but sheerest necessity had raised mutual shields across permeable mental barriers, muting their connection in the Force. If a Jedi's strength was augmented by that of his comrades… then his pain likewise could be refracted and enhanced. They stood watching the meaningless buzz of traffic outside the sacrosanct Temple precinct.

"The jury has gone into deliberations," Obi-Wan quietly informed his mentor. "Judge Zhudii exhorted them to consider whether they could pass down a guilty verdict with certainty beyond the shadow of a doubt."

Qui-Gon exhaled slowly. "There are few things in all the galaxy which we may know beyond the shadow of a doubt," he murmured.

The Padawan stepped closer, until they stood pressed close side by side, a citadel fortified against siege…. after the gates had been breached, the defenses laid low and the towers reduced to ruin. Qui-Gon's arm came around his student's shoulders, a rough buttress to overburdened walls.

"I am sorry, young one. I have ill prepared you to bear this."

But, feeling nothing, he had nothing of which to complain. "I – master, I –" Somewhere in the Force, an ephemeral wind played out a fluting dirge, just beyond the reach of hearing. It was Qui-Gon's duty to impart wisdom, and his to receive it; but in the ruin of all that had gone before, the delineation of roles was obscured, confused and reversed.

_There is no emotion._ He shifted, hesitating but a heartbeat before he wrapped both arms about the Jedi master and clasped the older man in a fierce embrace, protective and anxious at once, an effort perhaps to hold together the past and the future in a fleeting unity, to weave hope and despair into a tapestry of wisdom.

Qui-Gon was still tall enough to rest his chin atop his apprentice's head. He leaned into what scant comfort one survivor might afford another, lingering in the forbidden realm of attachment for a space of several deep breaths. They did not speak.

And then the Jedi master stepped back, gently holding Obi-Wan at arm's length. "I almost neglected to give you this," he said, his voice gruff, robbed of its mellifluous calm. He withdrew a tiny fold of synthsilk from his interior tunic pocket and let the cloth fall open upon his palm. There, nestled in the soft fiber, shone a brilliant turquoise Ilum crystal.

Obi-Wan held out a hand, reverently. "Master Tahl's?"

"She wanted you to have her 'saber crystal."

"But… shouldn't you…?"

Qui-Gon managed a small smile, a gust of fleeting warmth. "If you are wise, you will not dare take exception to her whim."

The crystal rose from its place and traveled gently into its new owner's possession. Obi-Wan closed his fingers over the precious object with tender solemnity. "I will keep it with honor." He tucked it into his own pocket, the hidden place against his breast where, until recently, a polished river stone had dwelt.

But then a doubt seized him. "Is it… appropriate, master? Such a token? Is it not against the Code?"

Qui-Gon's gaze drifted toward the network of far-flung lights below. "To _remember_ is not always to harbor sentimental attachment. And a saber crystal is among those few possessions not proscribed by the Code?"

The Padawan nodded, brows quirking upward when the tall man's hand rose to rest against his cheek, a silent benediction or gratitude whispering through the Force.

"It is late. You should retire."

The dismissal was no more than a plea for privacy, and obedience bade him withdraw whether or not he wished it. Obi-Wan bowed and retreated back into their hushed quarters, traipsing through the familiar common room into his own bedchamber where he lay upon his spartan sleep couch and chased elusive sleep, Tahl's last gift burning steadily in the Light, close against his heart, even as Qui-Gon's words echoed in his mind, eroding a resolve he thought irrevocably fixed in his mind.

_To remember is not always to harbor sentimental attachment._

His sleep was restive and short-lived, and when he woke in the small hours of morning, he found he had made a decision.

* * *

Troon Palo's dark eyes were bleary with the detritus of interrupted sleep. "It's three in the morning, Kenobi," the enormous clan-master growled.

Obi-Wan bowed his apology. "Forgive me, master… I wasn't attending to the time."

Troon leaned down, one furred hand clamping about his former charge's shoulder, face peering curiously into the young Jedi's. "Ah… well, since you're here, and I'm up anyway, why don't you come in."

They tiptoed into the hushed anteroom, now orderly and quiet in the absence of its boisterous denizens. The Force flowed placidly with the gentle snores of a dozen younglings in the adjacent dormitory.

"Come on, then," Master Palo ordered, leading the way into his office. He shut the door behind them and waved his visitor into the smaller chair. "So let me guess," he grumbled, tersely calling his computer online and tapping at the holo-display floating mid-air between them. "You've changed your mind and decided to have a peek at the personal records after all."

Obi-Wan looked up, startled, one hand already searching in his belt pouch for the identification code chip Qui-Gon had entrusted to him a seeming eternity ago. "Oh… ah, yes."

The hirsute Jedi chuckled, his rolling baritone filling the small space to overflowing. He tapped his forehead. "You might be all grown up but you can't sneak a sly one past old Troon. I've seen it _all,_ and then some."

The Padawan turned the coder between his fingers, studying its glinting magnetic surface, the subtly embossed signature of Qui-Gon's identity and privilege. "Master Qui-Gon wanted me to look. I … should."

"Want me to clear out?"

"No- you can stay- that is, there's no need. Thank you."

Troon winked. Then he nodded, made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat and switched places with the young man – no easy task in the cramped confines of his alcove office, which was substantially filled by its proper occupant and the desk. But Jedi training and natural agility won the day in the end.

Obi-Wan slotted the code chip into its place and waited as the database accessed the relevant files. Inhale. Exhale. In his present limbo, what possible effect could such knowledge have upon him? He watched the file coalesce in space, the letters of his name picked out in glowing aurebesh script. His fingers touched the interaction field, brushing through emptiness as he called up further details.

_Name. Gender. Species. Date of induction. Planet of origin. _And finally, _Family history and records._

"Do you know your birth family at all, Master?"

Troon snorted. "Litter of eight. One sister, six brothers. Decent chaps, but we've got nothing in common. Haven't spoken in a decade or so. Why?"

A supremely unfair question. Obi-Wan scowled at the flickering datafield, not yet reading it. "Master Seva says the Force runs thicker than blood."

"He said a lot of things, Obi-Wan. And so do you – bad habit. Stops you from _feeling_ things when you run your mouth too much."

He stared past the blurring field of text at his one-time caregiver. Such blunt pronouncements were by no means foreign to Troon's rough-hewn manner, but it had been many a year since he had felt the sting of such trenchant insight. "I'm _sorry," _he said, tightly, not meaning it.

"I've heard that before. Should I leave now?"

A dip of the head, and a pained glance upward. "I am sorry." This time he was genuinely contrite, and genuinely puzzled. Why should such a simple matter pose such difficulty? "I …I would appreciate privacy. Thank you."

Troon hauled himself out of the too-small chair on the room's opposite side and lumbered to the door. "I'll make some peruma tea, you hopeless scalawag."

When the hirsute clan-master had gone, Obi-Wan gripped the edge of his desk and forced his attention onto the glimmering information spread out above the projector plate. A Jedi was not, as Baro Spekkopolos had implied, a product of conditioning and ignorance. A Jedi was _apart_ because he chose to be so, because he _chose_ the Force in full cognizance of the risk and the cost, in willing submission to a power above all others, one that might demand of him the renunciation of every desire, his whole heart, his very life. He twisted the end of his learner's braid, the long record of a perpetually renewed commitment, and then steeled himself and squinted up at the account of his personal origins and heredity.

_Mother's name. Father's name. Known siblings. Education and occupation. Familial social standing and governmental office. Relevant property and inheritance laws. Transcript of interactions with Jedi recruitment agents. Legal documentation of custodial transfer._

He read through every last detail, the portrait of an existence utterly foreign and unknown to him, a possible future that had long since ceased to be, a connection crumbled to ash on its own pyre long, long ago.

Weary without understanding why, he muted the display and sat in silence for a long while. Perhaps he should _feel_ something now, as Troon had suggested. But he remained numb, this newly acquired knowledge settling deep into the silt at the bottom of his personal history, a muddy resting place where regret or longing had already hardened into wistful, harmless fossils.

He rubbed a hand against his stubbled chin and tried to summon up the appropriate response, but none came at his bidding.

And he wasn't even running his mouth.

He slipped the identi-coder out of its slot and pocketed it, making his escape with heavy steps. Master Troon, he sensed, was waiting for him in the next room, probably with soothing tea in hand, but he had no desire to be… mothered.

Pulling his cloak's hood over his head, he passed out of the dormitory and into the shadowed enclave of the Temple's main concourse, a memory fleeing its place of origin.

* * *

Qui-Gon rose the next morning considerably after dawn. The lapse in discipline dismayed him when he first blinked obstinately clinging slumber out of his eyes and looked on a world robbed of its foremost luminary. He breathed in, drawing in the Living Force, the fountain of existence, hoping perhaps to hear familiar laughter resounding in its empyrean depths. Nothing. For the universal could not truly be said to have the form of this or that particular radiance, being beyond such distinctions of individuality and need, beyond all narrative or need for such. He exhaled, banishing a disappointment he ought, by now, certainly not to feel.

His one consolation was that he had managed to dispel his own lassitude before his Padawan had even begun to stir. He glanced inside the smaller bedroom and noted with satisfaction that the young Jedi was still sprawled indolently across his sleep mattress, oblivious even to Qui-Gon's amused observation – for long familiarity had rendered them both so used to the other's presence that such an intrusion might barely ruffle the surface of awareness, and would certainly never raise the alarm of danger or trespass.

He rapped smartly on the doorframe. "Obi-Wan." And watched as his young charge – perhaps not so young anymore, by objective standards, but certainly fixed in the tall man's affections as an overeager and mischievous sprite, the youngling who would pore over a dozen historical or ethical treatises with same delight another might enjoy a pile of sweets, or who would throw himself into every sparring match – or wrestling match, for that matter – with a life-and-death ferocity suggestive of a _very dangerous man, _or who would twit his master with some piece of outrageous disrespectful wit at one moment and then apologize profusely the next – as this complicated knot of a personality rolled himself upright and rubbed both hands over his face with a small groan.

Today, though no lines marred his smooth complexion and no grey bedecked his thick crop of chestnut hair, Obi-Wan looked _old._ Or perhaps he merely felt _old _in the Force. He had, after all, but yesterday been orphaned, death claiming one guardian in body and another in spirit.

"Master, it's the middle of the night." A peevish sideways glance, and a lifted brow. "At least _somewhere_ on this planet."

"It is eighth hour, and sloth ill becomes a Jedi."

Obi-Wan stood, offering him an eloquent eye-roll, and then fluidly cartwheeled into a handstand, joints popping as he stretched. Qui-Gon made a move to claim the 'fresher first. After all, seniority had its advantages. And, he reflected as he tossed his rumpled tunic in the laundry chute and pulled a comb through his tangled mane, they still had to face the outcome of the Zan Arbor trial.

Not that it mattered – imprisoned or free, triumphant or sentenced to …at worst, execution… Jenna Zan Arbor had already done irrevocable damage, planted a seedling evil that could not be uprooted and would only flourish in time to come. There was no _restoration, _ no _atonement_ for Tahl Uvain's slow and lingering destruction. And there was no joy in serving a Force which granted such finality of effect only to the Dark. Evil might leave a lasting and immortal scar upon the face of the galaxy – but Light? Light could only postpone the inevitable, palliate the suffering inflicted on an undeserving world. All good things came to an end in time; but entropy and malice would claim the totality of existence before all was at its end.

And so why did he fight? What was the Order, the Code, the very nature and calling of a Jedi in the first place? And who was he to dare _teach_ another being to tread this self-same doomed path, a road leading to nowhere but failure? How could he claim to be a _master_ when all he had to offer was futility?

A smart rap on the 'fresher door, on clearly meant to echo his own summons of a few minutes previous.

"Vanity ill becomes a Jedi, master."

He smiled, despite himself. He might not deserve the title, but it warmed his heart. And though he might not be able to _teach, _ he could not renounce the vow to protect and nurture. An apprentice Obi-Wan's age might be looked upon as a fellow learner.

"Do you need _assistance,_ master? The quartermaster can send up some geriatric equipment if you require it."

_Brat._ They both had much to learn; why could they not learn it together? Had not Tahl abjured him to _look after_ Obi-Wan, to keep the Padawan under his wing? There were strange roads and uncharted paths which might still be better trod in company. And what he sought.. if it could be found…. this above all he would bequeath to the last and brightest of his line.

He waved the door open. "Have I neglected to teach you respect for your elders?"

Obi-Wan stood with arms crossed over his bare chest.. "With _all due respect,_ I need to be mindful of the Living Force," he quipped. "Rather urgently."

"Hm." Still blocking the entrance, Qui-Gon sized up his opponent. "You need to be mindful of your manners. Rather urgently."

The ensuing tussle was frivolous and belligerent enough to have brought down strict censure on both their heads, had there been witnesses. Fortunately, their quarters were not located in the reclusive west residential wing, and with good reason. Once the older man had reestablished his alpha status to his own satisfaction, he released his three point stranglehold and dismissed the Padawan to the 'fresher, and then retired to his own room to find a clean tunic and his boots, a glimmer of renewed purpose kindling deep within him.

They were seekers, not saints. And now, it was time to… seek.

* * *

"Ready?"

"Yes, master."

They headed down the corridor, side by side.

"Obi-Wan. When this trial is finished, as it soon will be, I shall request a leave from mission-ready status. I am sure the Council will agree."

They stepped into the nearest swift tube. "Would it not be best to remain active, master?"

"We will be. You asked me some time ago about my researches."

A cautious nod.

"We will be continuing them. In the field. I intend to seek out the shaman of the Whills."

This statement was met with blank incomprehension. Qui-Gon's mouth quirked at the corners. He may as well have told his apprentice they would be looking for quarkle-berries or frazzamadoodles.

But Obi-Wan was not intimidated by the unknown. He would, they both knew, follow Qui-Gon off a precipice – even if there was some intermittent grumbling about the sudden drop. "Yes, master."

Such willing trust and courage was rarer than aurodium, priceless beyond measure. Buoyed by a new hope, Qui-Gon led the way out into the main hall below. Come what may where the trail was concerned, he would do as the Force directed him. And his Padawan would be at his side.


	25. Chapter 25

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 25**

The courtroom was packed to overflowing.

"No finer entertainment to be found in the Core," Obi-Wan grumbled, peering through the observation balcony window at the eager crowd. "Even at the Coruscant Opera House."

Qui-Gon settled pensively behind him. "Hm."

"We should have purchased season tickets, master. We've been missing out on _culture."_

"Relax, Padawan. The outcome will not be swayed by your irony."

The young Jedi subsided, folding himself down beside his teacher and scowling at the Judge's bench. The jury had not yet returned to its place, still sequestered in the chambers reserved for deliberation. The defendant's counsel table stood empty, Zan Arbor presumably kept under prison guard in an adjacent security holding cell.

_Murderess._ The Force was thick with it, cloying and choking. And yet, even as he suffocated on the fact, he felt nothing. There was no grief. There was only…._purpose. _ There was only the next strike and counterstrike in an endless battle, the sempiternal struggle between Light and Dark, true death and false life. Whatever the jury's decision, whatever penalty exacted from the maleficent woman in the dock, this was no real and substantial battleground, no place of veritable judgment.

That would come later, as the Force willed. It was not limited to such decrepit and corrupt means of atonement. _Balance_ would come whether the public willed it or not, no matter how many bribes and threats had tarnished the Republic's high courts. He glanced sideways, at Qui-Gon Jinn. Would the Jedi master approve such a pointed quest? He had announced that they would seek out the shaman of the Whills. But why could they not also seek out Syfo-Dyas, the rotting cancer at the center of their world's rot? Surely wisdom and justice walked hand in hand, their purposes in no way countermanding the other. What must be _known_ and what must be _done_ were, after all, but two aspects of the same Force that guided their every thought and deed. And surely the sage and compassionate Jedi master would understand this. Surely he would recognize that his apprentice harbored a deep yearning of his own, a sense of _duty_ laid upon him by that which commanded them both.

Obedience bound him to Qui-Gon and to the Force at once. And he was content in that double yoke, secure in its welcome trammels. He could follow the dictates of his master and the Light, for was not the former a mere vessel of the other and greater authority?

They would seek the Whills. And they would _destroy_ Sifo-Dyas. The Force _willed _ it; and theirs was an alliance specially formed and shaped to render such a service. Just as Master Dooku had intimated.

"Master," he said, quietly.

The tall man met his gaze, feeling intuitively what was left unspoken. A smile warmed the lined grey eyes, a tiny glint of acknowledgment, of encouragement.

Outside their quiet watchman's post, the court had erupted into renewed energy. Zhuddi reappeared behind the bench, the bailiff called _all rise,_ the defendant and the prosecutor took their places, the jury and their foreman filed into their row of waiting seats. The audience stirred, restive and expectant.

"Order! Order in the court!"

The Jedi leaned forward, entranced by the same spell that bound the curious multitude.

"Mister Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

Zan Arbor remained impassive, almost smug, as serene and self-possessed as any Knight of the Order.

"We have, your honor."

"And in this matter of the People versus Doctor Jenna Zan Arbor, what determination has the jury reached?"

The foreman's antennae twisted ruefully. "We have debated the matter at great length, your honor, and we have concluded that there is insufficient evidence to merit a conclusive guilty verdict on the charges of attempted murder, imprisonment, torture, assault with intent to great bodily harm, illegal sentient experimentation, kidnapping, and conspiracy."

Zhuddi banged her gavel to restore order once again.

"And what have you determined regarding the charge of failure to obtain informed consent for medical procedures?"

A hesitance, in which the foreman cast a nervous glance in the indicted scientist's direction. "Ahem… the jury has reached a conclusion, your honor. We find Doctor Arbor guilty of violating the Republic's privacy and consent protocols while on Telos."

The Judge leaned back in her chair. "Jenna Zan Arbor. You have heard the verdict handed down by a jury of your peers, in this court today. As supreme authority, by the power invested in me by the Senate of the Galactic Republic, I hereby sentence you to payment of a fine in the amount of twenty thousand credits, and to the completion of five hundred hours community service within Republic boundaries. May I add, the neglect of proper paperwork is not an offense which this court or the people of the Republic take lightly. A second offense on your part will be met with strict reprisals."

Obi-Wan clamped his gaping jaw shut.

"Yes, your honor. I will take every pain to remedy the oversights."

The Padawan waved the audio-feed to its mute setting, swiveling about in his seat. "Twenty thousand credits?" he repeated, a tidal wave of _feeling _threatening to penetrate the numbing wall of blankness that had taken up residence in his soul. "Community service?"

Qui-Gon Jinn exhaled, mouth pressed into a thin line of disgust.

Obi-Wan stood. "I'm done here." His calling was elsewhere.

The Jedi master followed him onto his feet. "Yes. We are finished."

Their path lay elsewhere, far from this madding farce. It ran from the Temple's steps to some unknown destination, along whatever route the Force revealed. But it had no origin or destination here, where folly and corruption reigned in undisputed tyranny.

They had tasted failure before, but this was not their failure. It was the Republic itself that floundered and sank beneath its own weight, perjured itself in its own court, betrayed those that had laid down a thousand generations of life for its preservation.

There was nothing left to feel, and so the momentous revelation passed like a scudding cloud, like the drifting debris about a long-defunct star.

"There will be reporters everywhere," Obi-Wan warned as they descended the stairs at a brisk clip.

"It cannot be avoided," Qui-Gon grunted.

And indeed, it could not. The Jedi were the first to leave the building, and so the first to be assaulted by the cambots and ravenous gossip-mongers.

"_Padawan Kenobi!"_ the voice of Baro Spekkopolos shrilled above the clamoring mob. "A comment on today's verdict? A credit for your thoughts!"

The Padawan paused, a half-pace behind Qui-Gon. "The Court has fulfilled its ordained purpose admirably," he told the reporter. "And I, contrary to accepted custom in the judiciary sector, cannot accept the proffered credit. Our Code forbids it." A short bow. "Good evening, Mr. Spekkopolos." And he swept away, tucking hands into opposite sleeves.

Nonplussed, the journalist shrugged and turned away toward the courthouse entrance and the tide of new arrivals, in search of less ambiguous commentary and a more alluring angle for his early evening special edition report.

* * *

There were several messages waiting for Qui-Gon on the public holo-comm receiver in their quarters. Obi-Wan tossed his cloak over the nearest meditation cushion, flicked the device to playback mode, and wandered into the adjacent kitchen to prepare tea.

"…_sorry to inform you that your request for access to these files and artifacts is subject to Council approval,"_ the droning monotone of a Temple Archivist droid burbled. Obi-Wan crushed the dried leaves into the cermaplast pot, waving a hand to delete the message.

"_Hey, Qui-Gon ol' buddy!" _Dexter Jettster's stentorian tones rumbled through the small common area. "_Looks like I mighta got me a little place over in CoCo Town. Thanks for the real estate tip. Don't know how you do these things or where ya get your contacts." _Obi-Wan filled the pot with scalding water, agreeing wholeheartedly with Dex's bemusement. Still, it was good news that the Besalisk had found a property to establish his own private business enterprise. "_I'll have you and that bottomless pit o yers over for a bit of grub when I get the place set up."_

Frowning over this last declaration, the Padawan set the pot to steep. Bottomless pit, was it? Apparently Dex had never met Reeft.

"_For the last time, Qui-Gon Jinn, your request is highly irregular. If you would like to discuss the matter personally, I am available between the hours of sunset and sunrise every day. May the Force be with you."_

He spared a silent snort of amusement for Madame Nu's irate blue image, which pursed its lips and folded its hands primly into opposite sleeves before disappearing in a fizzle of blue light. He set the tea down on the table, staring at a ring-shaped stain where Tahl's customary cup had sat and grown tepid countless times over the passing years, and the place where a sizeable chunk had been burned out on that day of infamy when he had…

The next message began playing behind him as he brooded upon the low table's innumerable scars and memorial scratches.

"_Master Jinn,"_ a measured female voice addressed the holo-cam. "_I am sorry to disturb you once again_. _I depart for the Mid Rim in two days aboard the Sojourner; I shall not have opportunity to seek you out before then._"

Obi-Wan turned and studied the small blue effigy intently, eyes tracing over the face again and again, a line slowly deepening between his brows.

"_I wish merely to remind you of the promise you made, and of my humble desire to see such a meeting transpire, if it can be arranged in a manner at all convenient to you."_ A pause, in which the unnamed woman raised a hand to make some adjustment to the combs holding her coiled hair in place. "_I believe you are, besides a Jedi and a man of honor, not immune to the anxieties of a mother or father's heart. Or so I would like to believe."_

The woman was on the small side, middle aged, well-spoken, intelligent, and poised. And her eyes and voice were…

He deleted the message before the speaker could finish her polite farewells. A hand thrust through his bristled hair left it standing in indignant spikes. A few deep centering breaths returned his pulse to a sedate rhythm.

And then the door opened behind him.

"Is the tea ready?"

"Almost, master." His eyes remained fixed on the empty space where, a moment earlier, he had looked upon-

"Messages?" Mercifully, Qui-Gon did not seem to notice his perturbation, so preoccupied was the Jedi master with other matters.

"I …ah, Dex has purchased a property in CoCo Town."

Qui-Gon settled at the table and poured for two. "Excellent. What has you so disturbed?"

Or not. It was impossible to deceive the man. Obi-Wan raised his brows, throwing up a humorous defensive shield. "Beyond the obvious? Madame Nu called to deny some request of yours… She was quite aggravated, master - and indicated that she would release the records to your custody only if you publicly grovel before her and walk the length of the Archives main aisle on your knees."

The tall man's eyes narrowed. He took a preliminary sip. "Then it is fortunate I have a Padawan to whom I may delegate such tasks."

"Yes, master, I am sure your aging joints would ill tolerate such undeserved abuse."

Another sip of tea. "And I am likewise sure your impertinent rump would ill tolerate the abuse it so richly deserves."

Safely out of perilously uncharted waters, Obi-Wan folded himself down opposite his mentor and ventured into ones filled with more familiar dangers. "I do not think Madame Nu mentioned that part, master… unless of course it is a standing arrangement between you." A demurely lowered gaze as he raised his own cup.

Qui-Gon swallowed down a hot mouthful, clearing his throat forcibly, before answering with his next feint and thrust…. But no counterstrike followed, the mirthful dancing in the Force crashing down about their heads with an abrupt finality. The tall man sighed.

"Forgive me, master… it was meant as – I intended no disrespect." Miserably, the Padawan bowed his head.

"No matter," Qui-Gon assured him, heavily. "Perhaps another time."

After that they finished the tea in silence, and then meditated together yet each alone, and the message and its messenger were forgotten in dull march of empty hours.

* * *

Master Huyang was pleased to see him again.

"Ah, there you are. I thought perhaps you had abandoned your latest project, which would be a shame. A Jedi finishes what he starts, you know."

"Yes, master, I know." He _knew._

The hilt and focusing chamber were complete already, the housing for the 'saber's heart ready to receive its crystal. He laid his own weapon down upon the floor, before his knees, and set the new one beside it, a more compact variation on the original, its fitting mate. And then he sank deep into the Force, where Master Huyang's solicitous presence could not follow. Expert or not, the droid was left behind, outside in the realm of the material and fallible.

He lingered in his inner sanctuary for a long moment, puzzled – with some distant part of his mind – that the Force itself seemed this morning to bear the faint aroma of spicy beans and _djo_, a strange incense to be sure, but one so weighted with association and memory that its ephemeral echo left him aching, the constricting numbness about his heart easing a trifle. Outside the walls of that shocked nothingness lurked a churning sea, a tempestuous infinity of passion and emotion. But it crashed harmlessly against the shrine of Light, impotent to overwhelm this sacred center of being.

And then he widened his awareness again, allowing the workshop and Master Huyang and the two sabers to encroach upon his solitude. The world appeared suffused with radiance, with the Force that penetrated and bound all things together, and he knew he was ready. The smaller, unfinished 'saber rose from the floor and separated, its components rotating gently, celestial spheres playing out their complex dance about a young star. The turquoise crystal rose and hovered mid-air; the focusing chamber reassembled itself about the delicate shard; the power couplings and insulation and emitter plate and grips and beam modification circuit and the outer hilt, the pommel, the _body_ of this new creation all softly fell into place, united and aloft on a sea of Light.

He inhaled deeply. One mistake and the 'saber would obliterate him the first time he activated it, but there was no fear. Tahl's crystal shifted, edged minutely into the optimal alignment. He moved his hands, signaling _completion; _the disparate pieces fused together, melding into a whole, into his new-born _shoto_ blade.

The crystal is the heart of the blade, the Jedi is the crystal of the Force, the Force is the blade of the heart.

Reverently, he reached out to grasp the completed weapon in his left hand, his right lifting the _kenilum_ still waiting on the floor. He rested, the two sabers gripped loosely in his hands upon his knees, and exhaled again. Slowly, slowly, he released the Light and opened his eyes.

Master Huyang was leaning over, apparently entranced. "Well done," the droid burbled. "I must say, you are a natural."

Obi-Wan stood, and fastened both weapons at his belt, one to either side. "Thank you, master," he replied, making the droid a bow. He had room in his heart to spare courtesy to the pompous but innocuous workshop overseer.

"It is nearly sunset," Huyang observed. "I presume you will be attending tonight's ceremony."

He nodded, facing the exit and the ceremony that awaited, armed body and spirit.

* * *

Qui-Gon lit the pyre.

Not one of the many Jedi present in the Hall of remembrance remarked upon the choice of persons to fulfill this duty. Tahl's former master having long ago preceded her into the Force, and her two grown and Knighted apprentices being posted in remote journey mission territories in the Rims, the role fell naturally to some close associate. Qui-Gon Jinn was a well-respected member of the Order, a compassionate soul and a friend to many even outside the ranks of the Jedi.

They were known to have been comrades, to have spent innumerable hours debating the finer points of Temple philosophy, to have undertaken delicate missions as a very effective team in their younger years. If Obi-Wan knew more, he held his peace.

Mace Windu's rolling voice intoned the traditional words of the funeral ceremony. The tiered rows of spectators, solemn witnesses to this final parting, circled the central platform with cowls raised and cloaks fastened over pale tunics, a convocation of orphans, of those grafted into a millennia long lineage. When the rites had been completed, many remained behind in quiet meditation.

Obi-Wan stood beside his mentor, watching the ravaging flames finish what Jenna Zan Arbor had started, the immolation of Tahl's mortal frame, gross matter crumbling into ash amid fragrant wood and oil, the luminous being set symbolically free. Beside him Qui-Gon Jinn stood unmoving, mental shields impenetrable, leonine features hidden beneath the deep shadows of his cloak hood.

He, for his part, felt nothing.

The licking tongues of fire danced before his eyes, and deep beneath his ribs, upon the hearthstone of vitality. Shadows slithered and shimmered upon the colonnaded walls, upon the hollowed recesses of his soul. Desiccated flesh and youthful innocence withered, collapsing into rarefied ash, into purest white flame.

There is no death. Had he ever doubted the wisdom of the ancient mantra, he doubted no longer. There was _nothing_. There was the Force.

They stood sentinel, together and yet each alone, until the pyre's consuming flames had sung the final requiem and smoldered into haunting silence.


	26. Chapter 26

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 26**

The Council sat in silence for a full minute after Qui-Gon Jinn announced his firm intention to seek out the Shaman of the Whills, morning light spilling thickly over the mosaic floor, caressing each detail of the floral motif with a wistful touch. Obi-Wan kept his eyes down, feeling the weight of the Councilors' perturbation as a pressure closing around his spine.

Something was wrong. He could sense it, though he did not understand its cause.

At last, Mace Windu steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, dark eyes liquid with regret… and something else. "No," the Korun rumbled.

Qui-Gon's head came up, lightning flashing in the Force. "What?"

"Heard our decision, you did, Qui-Gon," Yoda chuffed. "Denied is your request. Seek this Shaman you will not."

The tall master shifted his weight, a subtle lapse into battle-ready stance. Beside him, his apprentice winced.

_No master! Not again!_

But the silent plea was, as always, ignored. Qui-Gon Jinn had been defying the Council's dictates since before Obi-Wan's birth. He wasn't about to stop now.

"Your reason?' the tall man curtly demanded of the Grand Master.

Yoda's gimlet eyes slitted into dangerous crescents. "For your own good, and that of your Padawan, do we make this decision. Your place it is to submit."

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Of course Master Yoda had chosen the _worst_ possible tactic – likely on purpose. The mention of _obedience_ did nothing to mollify the Order's resident maverick. In fact, it pushed him over the invisible edge of his tolerance.

"Strange," he remarked, with deadly calm. "My decision was predicated upon the same considerations."

Mace Windu reached his limits in the next heartbeat. "Your considerations do not outweigh the authority of this Council or the wisdom of our entire tradition, Jinn. The Whills are heretics and dabblers in questionable practices. No good purpose can be served by seeking them out. Especially," he growled," With a younger member of this Order in tow. The Council _forbids_ it."

Qui-Gon scoffed impatiently. "None here have ever bothered to study what little is known of the Whills. I checked the Archives records – your judgment is based on ignorance, in violation of the second pillar."

Obi-Wan cast a desperate pleading glance upward at his mentor. To accuse the _Council_ of violating the principles of the Order was… outrageous.

And Master Yoda's snort of contempt amply conveyed his opinion of this pronouncement. "Overstepped yourself, you have, Qui-Gon. Silent, you will be."

A resentful nod, and the rebel subsided, a muscle in his jaw leaping visibly.

Blood rushing in his ears, Obi-Wan assaulted his teacher's mental shields again. _Master, please! _ This was not going to end well.

The Grand Master shimmied off his chair and stamped forward, gimer stick clacking harshly against the marble floor as he made a full circuit about the inside of the circle, grunting irritably with each shuffling step. He halted when his peregrination brought him back round to face Qui-Gon Jinn and his apprentice.

There, he peered upward, a horrible scowl marring his rumpled features. "Sense your intentions, I do. Go in defiance of our word, you will. Stop you I cannot, Qui-Gon Jinn. But hear this: disobey in _this_ and you renounce your place in this Order. _Enough_ have we endured of your insurrection."

This time Obi-Wan's protest was accompanied by a sudden intake of breath. Qui-Gon caught his eye, but only a fey light sparked behind the tall man's gaze, a cold determination freezing his features into a displeased frown. _Courage, Padawan._

The young Jedi's heart leapt against his ribs. It was not an ordinary fear that coiled in his breast; did Qui-Gon even comprehend the ultimatum laid before him? Would he truly embrace apostasy to further his own goals? The broad chamber seemed to shift beneath his feet, circling idly with the planet's motion.

"Padawan Kenobi."

His attention jolted abruptly back to Master Windu, who was now leaning forward in his chair, a glower stamped upon his dark features. "Yes, Master Windu."

"Did Master Jinn explain the nature of this quest to you?"

Obi-Wan blinked, a weight settling in his gut. "No, master."

"I assume you agreed to accompany him, nonetheless."

But of course he had. "Yes, master. It is my place," he added, willing the intimidating Korun to see the obvious. What Padawan would not follow his master without question or objection? Such trust was the foundation of their mutual oath, and thereby the foundation of the Order itself. A flare of hot approval from Qui-Gon; an icy whiplash of _anger_ from Master Yoda.

The Padawan drew himself up. "It is my place," he repeated.

He could feel Yan Dooku's penetrating stare resting upon him from behind, the Sentinel's silent and aloof scrutiny burning a hole in his composure.

Master Yoda slammed his stick into the floor again. "Abuse such loyalty you do, Qui-Gon," he rasped. "Drag down others into your folly, you will. Selfish."

Qui-Gon stirred, hands dropping to rest upon his hips in manifest disgust. "I have heard enough, my masters," he growled. A short bow, conveying little respect and less submission.

"You have been warned," Mace shot after him as he stormed toward the exit and the lifts, cloak billowing at his heels, the Force churning in unrest.

Obi-Wan lingered behind, even as the tall man disappeared into the antechamber.

"More to say, have you, Padawan?"

The tower was surely breaking free of its foundations, giddily swaying in the heights. He dropped to one knee. "Masters," he began, willing the desperation to leave his voice.

Yoda's ears drooped. Mace Windu's eyes softened. There was a faint ripple of pity within the Force's seething currents.

"Master Qui-Gon is … not himself. Please, I beg you, do not impose this choice upon him. He is a loyal servant of the Force and deeply committed to the …Jedi path." He almost said _to the_ _Code, _but that would indeed have been stretching truth to the breaking point. "And he is my master."

Yoda closed his eyes, shoulders slumping as he grumbled some private imprecation deep in his throat.

Mace exhaled. "You disrespect your _master_ by speaking thus," he pointed out.

"It's not disrespect… it's the _truth_, Master Windu." He would do anything, dare anything, to save Qui-Gon from the terrible fall opening before his feet. He was _sworn_ to protect the man, was he not?

"Attachment," Yoda declared, without explanation. "Subtle are its snares. Honor your training and your master you do, Obi-Wan, but reverse this judgment you cannot."

Defeated, he hung his head. "He is my master."

The ancient Jedi took a step forward, leaning heavily on his cane. "Follow him you may. But know this: share in his fate you will, if such you choose. Leave the Order willingly would you?"

No. Never. Not if it cost him his life. He looked beseechingly at the Grand Master, but the tiny master did not relent. "He is my _master,"_ he implored once again.

"Then go to him," Mace Windu sighed. "You will not sway this Council."

Obi-Wan found his feet, though vertigo seized him. He bowed, unsteadily, and took his leave, the Force roaring discordantly in his blood, laying siege to the numb ramparts of his heart.

* * *

The largest training salle's observation balcony held a throng of spectators late that same morning.

"Stars' _end," _Jedi Knight Feld Spruu muttered, peering over the railing at the battle royale unfolding below.

Beside him, Cin Drallig only smiled, a secret amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth, deepening the lines about his eyes. "Yan has a certain style, certainly," he agreed. "Seldom will he engage anyone so _openly._ If I did not think such a thing impossible, I would say his feathers have been ruffled a tad."

The Twi'Lek grinned impishly. "Then Master Dooku had better watch himself or he'll end up _plucked and roasted."_

"Hm." The swordsmaster would on any other occasion have thought this prognostication highly dubious – but as he watched the mock combat playing out below, he reconsidered his opinion. Dooku's present opponent was fighting like a very, very dangerous man.

"And whose fool idea was it give Kenobi a _shoto_, anyhow?" Feld idly mused. "He's a pain in the _pula_ enough with just one blade."

An aggrieved newcomer shouldered his way through the crowd and squeezed between the swordsmaster and the Twi'lek. Ben To Li's eyes narrowed as he beheld the all-out melee below. "So it's true," he grunted. "I'll have his hide."

But Master Drallig laid a hand on the healer's arm. "Peace, brother. You cannot keep a fish from water nor a bird from the skies without breaking its heart. Besides, Yan will see to the hide part."

Though it did not necessarily seem so.

"_By the Force,"_ Knight Spruu chuckled, lekku quivering as Dooku's young dueling partner ducked beneath a swift decapitating strike and came up against the older man's thigh with a reverse cut on the left, longer blade sweeping into a bind on the opposite side. The Makashi counterstrike went wide; the Sentinel barely escaped a singeing to his groin; the contestants spun and rolled apart, facing off again with mutually bared teeth, both faces slick with perspiration, the Force roiling with deadly enjoyment.

"I'm not patching him up again if he tears that ligament," Ben To grumbled, and then departed in a huff.

The tall blue-skinned Knight craned his head about, surveying the small crowd of spectators. "Where is Master Jinn?" he wondered.

Cin Drallig shrugged, and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "He's missing the fun – but maybe that's for the best, my friend."

At that moment, the protracted battle came to a fiery conclusion, the whirling green blade and the paired sapphire lightning bolts colliding in a final cataclysmic clash, shrieking and spitting their combined fury until, marvelously, the _shoto_ blade withdrew from a bind, the younger combatant executed a tight backflip in mid-air, parried a downward strike on his raised right-hand saber and simultaneously drove the point of his shorter weapon past the Sentinel's guard and under the last rib, a killing blow by the rules of tournament.

Dooku stumbled back ward, eyes wide, and made a stiff bow.

Obi-Wan stood, eyes glittering with triumph, and made a deeper obeisance, the two 'sabers disappearing into their hilts on a dissonant chord.

"Most… impressive," the senior Jedi admitted, voice roughened by a hint of pain. His brows lifted.

"A Jedi finishes what he starts," Obi-Wan Kenobi responded. "Thank you, master, for starting me on the path to this victory."

Dooku's thin mouth curled upward at one corner. "Next time I shall use my _right_ hand," he decided.

The audience clapped its approval. The silver haired master glanced upward. "Ah. Celebrity seems to follow you like a stray akk pup."

The Padawan merely bowed again, wiping his face with one tunic sleeve. "I shall endeavor not to lead it astray."

The Sentinel's grey eyes narrowed. "I see. I look forward to our next meeting." And he turned to the exit, prowling away like a midnight black colwar, his dark and elegant form surmounted by a thick crown of silver, his bearing as sprightly and upright as it had been fifty years ago, when he had been a youth of eighteen himself.

* * *

Obi-Wan forewent the sonics and indulged in real water in the shower rooms, leaning against the cool side of the stall, pressing his head against the smooth tile as the sweat and grime ran off his skin, pooling in the fragrant suds at his feet before being whisked down to the 'cycling center by the efficient vacuum drain system. The sparring match with Dooku had lasted nearly an hour, and his muscles now felt as numb and shocked as the rest of him, a dull emptiness dragging at his sore limbs as much as his heart and mind.

Still, he had won. And that was something.

Or nothing at all. Not compared to all that had come before, especially the fateful conflict in the Council chambers this morning. He braced both hands against the wall, watching rivulets cascade between his outstretched fingers,

And suddenly, without warning or reason, another outpouring threatened to join the water running so freely down his back and legs. He jerked upright on a sudden indrawn breath. _There is no emotion. There is peace._

He dried himself off with rough haste, and threw his cloak on over still-damp tunics, and departed at a pace somewhat more brusque and hurried than suited the ideal of Jedi calm.

* * *

"Master?"

"In here." Qui-Gon tossed a wad of cream cloth into an open satchel upon his sleep-couch, which had already been stripped of its linens. In fact, the entire larger bedroom was eerily _tidy,_ exuding a consciously inflicted vacancy.

Obi-Wan stopped in the doorframe.

"We leave the day after tomorrow," the tall Jedi master informed him, laconically. "I've secured a berth on a reliable vessel." He glanced up. "You may pack at your convenience; I simply have some affairs to tie up here on Coruscant."

The Padawan gripped the edge of the door. "You are leaving … the Order?"

Qui-Gon's hair spilled over his broad shoulders as he leaned over to secure the small travel case. "I do not look upon it as such. But the Council has chosen to leave me, as it were." He stood, and turned to his appalled apprentice. "I am not abandoning you," he added, by way of reassurance. "Never, Obi-Wan."

The Padawan opened his mouth to speak, but words would not form in his over-weary mind. "Master," he said, helplessly.

A small frown rumpled the tall man's forehead. "What is it?"

"Master, I … I cannot leave the Jedi. This is what _I am."_

But Qui-Gon Jinn was undeterred. "You are a servant of the Force, Padawan. I saw it in you when first we met. And that is something broader and deeper even than the Order. I will complete your training, I promise you. I promised Master Tahl the same."

"And I promised her I would stay on the path." He had sworn it to Tahl, and to the Force itself, time and time again, in thought and word and deed. And it had been promised on his behalf by others, before could even speak, so many sacrifices made and renewed over the years that it would be obscene to nullify them all in one reckless act of rebellion.

"Master, please."

"I don't understand." Qui-Gon stepped forward, and braced him by the shoulders. "Obi-Wan, what are you saying?"

What _was_ he saying?

For the second time that day, he found himself on one knee. "Master. I beg you to reconsider. Heed the Council and remain here… I need you."

Qui Gon followed him down, fingertips still trailing against his arms, deepest pain softening his grey eyes. "Padawan, I am not forsaking you. We depart together, as always. I am honored to have you by my side."

The young Jedi bowed his head. "I can't leave," he repeated. "Please, master."

But the older man only shook his head, gently. "No, Obi-Wan. This is the will of the Force. You must trust me. I will not stay… even for you."

The blow was stunning; it sank deep into vulnerabilities long scabbed over. Qui-Gon's loyalty and compassion were boundless, and yet they still admitted of limit and hierarchy. And here there was no quarter, and no compromise; a Jedi served the will of the Force above his own desire, above all else. Attachment, however strong, however pure and true, stood no chance in the face of such an absolute. A Padawan could not turn a master out of his Force-ordained path, by any power or means granted him.

In the final reckoning, he came second.

Obi-Wan nodded. "I understand." His other knee hit the floor. He thought he might be sick, if he were not so empty.

Qui-Gon gripped his forearms one last time, and rose. "Meditate upon it," he advised. "I know you will find clarity, Obi-Wan. You always have."

Loss reared up its ugly head and laughed, a wild cackling in the Force, a ravenous pit already glutted and yet howling for more, for endless deprivation, for the renunciation of every good and sweet thing in existence, for a poverty more absolute and excoriating than any other.

_There is no emotion. There is no passion. There is no ignorance. _

"Yes, master," he answered, despair roughening the syllables.


	27. Chapter 27

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 27**

"Ah. Obi-Wan. Expected you, I did."

"May I come in, master?"

The ancient Jedi waved him into the light-mottled chamber, where a coil of blue incense still smoldered in its humble ceramic dish. It rose ghostly in the early morning light, mutable contours curling and undulating as it ascended to the pale ceiling.

"Sit. Sit."

He sank onto the nearest mediation cushion and arranged his cloak about his knees.

Yoda snuffled and squirmed his way onto the other. "A new 'saber you have crafted."

Obi-Wan nodded. "A _shoto, _master." A tiny smile. "Like yours."

"Hmmmph. Think you one is not sufficient? Subject of controversy, perhaps. Know you my opinion on the subject?"

He was not such a young fool as all that. "The Force is the blade of the heart; a Jedi needs no other."

This earned him a snort of approval.

"But I'll still keep the knife in my boot, if it's all the same to you, master."

Yoda's ears perked upward, his wrinkled mouth pursing into a fierce line. "Come to see me you did. To exercise your wit, or for some other reason?"

The Padawan studied his hands. "Master Qui-Gon is adamant in his resolution to leave, against the Council's wishes."

"Know this I do. A surprise it is not." the Grand Master sighed noisily. "Regret I feel – your master a bright light is, though a _rogue_ always. Thought you would steady him on the path, I did."

"I'm sorry, master." Another failure to be tallied to his account.

"Your fault this is not. To the Whills he will go." Yoda laid his stick across his knobbly knees. "Now, tell me: will you go with him?"

A terrible clamp bore down about his lungs and heart. "I… what if I … Master, what if I do not?"

_What will become of me now?_

"Hmmm." The old one's eyes slid closed as he sought in the currents of the future, of the Unifying Force. "A Jedi you will be, Obi-Wan. Destined, it is. Blame will not fall on you."

"I am meant to be a Jedi. I know it." He had also known, as recently as a day ago, that Qui-Gon Jinn was meant to be his teacher and guide, the willing recipient of obedience and reverence, and – beyond this – a loyalty bordering on something far more problematic.

But the ancient Jedi offered no cheap affirmation, or shallow reassurance. "Steep, and often difficult is that path. Tread carefully, Obi-Wan. Narrow grows the way, and hungry are the shadows to either side."

"But who will teach me?" For that was the heart of the matter, the dreadful unanswered question.

Yoda squinted at him, snubbed nose wrinkling. "Know you already do. Feign not innocence. Perhaps –" his tone dropped into a gravelly bass – "you _wish_ for this, hmm? Even as you dread it. Treacherous our hearts can be. Divided. Like two blades with one wielder. Choose wisely."

It was no advice at all. And as such, it was permission and exhortation at once. Obi-Wan dipped his head. "I came to seek your counsel," he said, knowing it was a futile request.

"No," the Grand Master rasped. "Wished me to save you from difficult choice, you did. This I will not do. Search your feelings and find the answer you shall."

"Yes, master."

But as he traipsed away down the corridor, he wondered how he could possibly search his feelings, when he no longer had any. It was a paradox beyond his ken, and so he turned to action as a relief from the frustration of his impossible choice.

He had one more thing to do.

* * *

Pandemonium reigned at the spaceport.

Obi-Wan dodged and wove his way among the seething crowds, slipping between overladen hover-trolleys and baggage porter droids, bypassing the pedestrian swift tubes in favor of more direct routes such as the girders or a leap over intervening barriers, overriding a few security checkpoints on the strength of his Jedi status. It had been an aggravating journey here in the battered air-car grudgingly allotted him by the vehicle pool requisitions droid – and he noted, with a flare of distress he could not quite explain, that the scheduled departure time for the _Sojourner_ was well nigh upon them.

He shoved his way through the last press of bodies, the Force's suggestive power carving a yielding passage for him as he pushed into the embarkment area outside the last docking bay on this concourse. Service droids were already shepherding passengers into queues, scanning luggage tickets, giving instructions for pre-flight procedures. Economy class boarded first, the majority of the crowded vestibule's occupants stampeding toward the open ramps connecting the ship to this sheltered terminal.

He waited for the herd to thin, heart pounding against his ribs, for no reason whatsoever. The holoboard posted on the far wall displayed the vessel's itinerary. At the heads of the scrolling columns flashed the words _destination_ and _point of origin._ He swallowed, the Force closing in around him like a vise_. Breathe,_ he chided himself.

And then he spotted her, sedately waiting for the first class cabin entrance to be unsealed. The ship's starboard hull was visible through the transparisteel just beyond, its frame tarnished and pocked by innumerable re-entries into atmosphere. And beyond that, there were other ships waiting to disgorge their cargoes, and beyond that, the endless city's endless sprawl. He swallowed and – by an act of will- trained his attention back on the person with whom he _must,_ in all decency and honor, meet.

His fingertips brushed the pommels of both sabers at his belt. Nerves steeled, he dragged himself forward across the intervening space, stopping a double arm's length away.

The sweep of his cloak caught her attention – and then she turned her head again, arrested by the sight. His jaw clenched, the Force now constricting painfully about his very center; her eyes widened in synchrony with his own; they bowed to one another with perfect, impeccable grace.

And then silence.

She blinked rapidly, one hand rising to her throat. "Obi-Wan."

He felt his brows contract at the jarring familiarity, the surreal sliding of this moment over his senses, rain mixing in a puddle of oil, uneasily blending into contorted ribbons of light and color. His wit stuttered back into action, albeit clumsily. What form of address ought he to use?

"Madam."

"Did – did Master Jinn send you?"

Her voice stirred awful depths, making him reel inwardly. "I – no. He is… I received your message and I ..wished to bid you farewell."

She watched him breathe. He hoped he was not as white-faced as he felt. The edges of the spaceport had blurred into the universal Force, into a hazy latency.

She smiled, a little. There was bittersweet sorrow in the twist of her lips. "Farewell, then. It was… good of you to come."

There was a droid servitor approaching. People were moving about them, trickling toward the open ramp. Her gaze did not leave him, though one hand tightened about the satchel she carried. Should he… convey his regards to her family members? Ask after her health? Do _something?_ What was expected?

She opened her mouth to speak and then thought better of it, her eyes traveling over the drape of his cloak's hood, the glint of the weapons at his belt, the dangling braid, and then back over his face, resting there with a peculiar tenderness. Her free hand stole upward to rest against her bosom, as though stilling an aching heart.

"Are you- are you …?" She stopped, then lifted her chin and continued. "Are you happy? Do you know joy, Obi-Wan? Or only sorrow?"

He stared. It was an obscenely personal question. But perhaps she was entitled. He wasn't really sure. "I – I accept both, as the Force wills."

He could see the answer did not satisfy. Her eyes searched his for a long moment, in a manner that reminded him of Qui-Gon, or Bant or Garen, or Siri… or even Tahl.

Perhaps she saw some reflection of these others in his gaze, for her own expression softened with something bordering on relief. "I think you have your own joy. Maybe it is strange to the rest of us… but real to you. Or more than real."

He wondered if she had ever touched the Force. Part of him hoped so, if only in some small way. A chime sounded overhead, warning the passengers to embark.

"All those years ago - I did what seemed right," she told him, with a quiet intensity. "If I was wrong… for the love of all that is merciful and good, forgive me. I beg you."

A moment in which he stood stunned. She did not look away.

His voice rasped absurdly. "There is nothing to forgive. On the contrary." He willed her to see it. And then he willed her not to ask again. And then there was inexplicable moisture burning about the edges of his vision.

The droid was here, burbling at them both. Startled, she murmured some assenting phrase to it. Then, "I must depart."

He nodded. Yes. Of course. "May the Force be with you." A deep bow, as deep as he might make to Master Yoda. When he rose, he did not understand why tears stood in her eyes, and he was glad that she ignored them, just as he did. There is no emotion, there is peace.

"Walk in peace," she said.

And then she was gone, following the droid into the waiting boarding tunnel, and the ship's hull. Obi-Wan stood for a long time, arms crossed and hands folded tight against his chest, lest he reach out for something he could neither name nor remember, and which – he felt sure- was not his to have.

And when the _Sojourner_ had lifted into Coruscant's frenetic skies and was gone, he pulled his cloak hood over his head and wandered, like a dazed man, back to the outside docking enclosure and his humble conveyance, and flew back to the Temple his home and point of origin.

* * *

There was nothing else to be done, or not done. Obi-Wan wandered back to the quarters he shared with Qui-Gon Jinn, only to discover that the rooms had been by now entirely stripped of what few small objects distinguished them as _personal_ to the tall Jedi master. Not a leaf, a stone, a cup or forgotten holobook remained upon the few furnishings or the ledges built into the pale walls. He did not need to glance into the larger bedroom to know that it too stood utterly vacant, even the spare clothing packed away into a single travel case. The very walls ached with their long-time occupant's imminent departure. The balcony seemed to mourn his absence, the worn cushions and scratched table their abandonment. Only the man's Padawan felt nothing.

But he had not _felt_ in days. Perhaps he had been transformed to a droid, a dutiful automaton. Surely, without Qui-Gon, he was in some sense only a soulless puppet spouting the Code and the words of an ambition cherished since earliest childhood but grown tarnished and stale with experience. He had not the heart of a Jedi, for at this moment he had no heart at all, only a small and empty space recently evacuated by its tenant.

His body was tired. So he shuffled into the smaller bedroom and stretched out on the sleep mat, willing his dulled senses to melt into indifferent, smothering slumber.

He felt nothing.

But his mind would not cease wandering the Temple corridors, the skies of Coruscant, the reticulated avenues of private doubt, a ghost dully trudging through the worn corridors of time, along the rut of its own bondage.

There was nothing more to be done or said. And he still felt nothing.

And then, at last, his eyelids drooped, promising the release and cessation of even this grey and meaningless limbo, this hollow netherworld where there was no emotion, no passion, no ignorance, and no meaning. He fell headlong into a sleep beyond mere exhaustion, plummeting deep into the Force, into a still and sanctified corner of his being where the excruciating _nothingness_ had not yet reached.

And she was there. Somehow.

_Siri! Siri I miss you. _

In the dream – not dream- vision – in the present moment, wherever and however it was, she waited for him, open-armed. Her embrace was destination and origin, beginning and end, a closing and an opening. He fell into it, trembling.

_Siri… everything is wrong. _

She soothed him with tender hands. _It's not your fault, ben'ke. It can't be. _

_Zan Arbor is free. Tahl is dead. Qui-Gon is leaving. And I… I…_

Siri's scent filled the very Force. Warm lips grazed across his forehead, and he sobbed.

_You what? What are you doing? _

_I am a Jedi, Siri. I must do this._

Her hands seemed to strip away hardened layers of armor, of clothing, of fortified defenses. Nothingness raged and ranted, sensing the end of its dominion. The walls of his reserve crumbled beneath her gentle siege.

_Siri- I – I'm afraid – I can't -_

_Oh, my stupid, stupid brave sweet gundark… I love you._

The thrice-forged bands about his composure cracked at long last, unshackling that which had been consigned to deepest oblivion. The levees of nothingness burst open, crushed beneath the tidal onslaught of dammed and thwarted feeling. And there _was_ emotion and passion, there _was _ profound and dizzying ignorance, and above all there _was_ death, a flood of death, a supernova of death roaring through the plenum, razing down all past and present and future, burning every thought in purgative fire, in wringing tears, in howling sorrow welling from unknown depths.

He screamed out his heart onto the altar of her compassioin, within the hallowed sanctuary of her arms, pain and regret and confusion and anger and cold fear, and apocalyptic loss, the end of a universe and the agonizing birth of the next. And Siri held him as he wept, offering neither censure nor false comfort, but only herself.

And when all had screamed and wept and scourged its way through to the very bitterest end, there was only the Force - undiminished and pure, penetrating and binding all things together in a different kind of peace, a different kind of emptiness.

_Oh Siri. Forgive me. I love you. I miss you._

_Shh. Just…. hush. It will be all right in the end. It has to be. I know it. _

And because she knew it, he made himself believe it too, for this single graced moment. Exhausted, he sank deep into the comfort of her embrace, and rested in the unconditional surety it offered, and slept.

When he woke many hours later the next morning, he was surprised to find himself still in his tiny chamber in the Temple, stiff and sore, and disheveled and rumpled – and quite alone.


	28. Chapter 28

**Lineage VIII**

* * *

**Chapter 28**

The topmost spire of the Jedi Temple rose, majestic and tranquil, from the pyramid's center, a beam of light ossified in purest white marble, surmounted by a single chamber with transparent walls. From this high and guarded vantage, the very clouds that pastured in Coruscant's docile skies seemed a drifting sea, blanketing the city in white veils on this early morning. The peaks and towers of distant mega-structures loomed out of the swell, a scattering of serene islands in a boundless ocean of rolling mist. Lights still twinkled here and there, brighter than the pallid dawn light, so many points of starfire in an immensity tamed into civility by a thousand generations, by incalculable labors and struggles.

Peace.

Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, surrounded in spirit by a similar ocean, another immensity. The Force drew close about him, concealing more than it revealed, obscuring doubt and pain beneath the mantle of tranquility, only the peaks and towers of present stark choice rising above the rolling sea, an archipelago of certitudes and commitments.

Beyond this difficult moment, on the far horizon, daybreak's splendor shone clear, a path of pure gold cast over the undulating plain of white: _this_ way, the supernal light directed him.

_I am Jedi._

He would not forsake his vital, essential, inalienable calling. Not if it cost him his life.

And it just might. He exhaled, slowly, the full weight of grief no longer bound and muffled within him. Tattered and bloody, his heart ached for what must come, his imagination reeled in the sudden absence of what had been. How could he possibly part ways with Qui-Gon Jinn, likely never to meet again?

The sun rose higher, and the sea of white instantly was set aflame, crimson and gold radiance suffusing the quite world beneath the blue sky's dome. Fire leapt and danced, purifying the dross of emotion.

He would do what he must. At whatever cost.

Joyless, he looked upon the gloriously adorned world without. The Force bade him stay on the path, to follow its lead through the very darkest reaches of night, if need be. He kept his gaze forward on that distant and unattainable beacon, the planet's star, the terminus of the blinding path over treacherous and shifting terrain.

_It will be all right in the end. It has to be. I know it._

He stood, slowly, head still bowed down by the weight of the choice to be made. Before this moment, _obedience_ had always meant the humbling of will and intellect to some other's directive. But now, it meant much more. There was no _other_ left. He stood orphaned and alone before the Force and knew that _this_ was the true test.

Though salty regret trailed softly down his face, though there was none present but himself and the Light that penetrated and bound all things together, he bowed deeply, signifying his new and more profound _obedience, _and departed with heavy step.

The time had come.

* * *

The west residential wing had never been to his liking, but necessity bade him set foot within its hushed confines one last time. In departing from the Temple, from the sedate rhythms of its life and the harbor it symbolized, he left behind much, not all of it treasured, not all of it abandoned with regret. But there were some ties that must be recognized, whatever personal feelings might color the event.

He needed, in all honor and decency, to say farewell to his former master, the man that had raised him and set him on the Jedi path. It was only fitting.

He waved a hand over the door's inset control panel, sounding the chime.

"Ah." Dooku was clad in close-fitting tunic and trousers of black cloth, his lithe body as powerful and graceful as it had been forty years ago. His once-dark hair had bleached to purest silver, but this was the only trophy of long experience the Sentinel deigned to wear. He waved his former student into his private quarters with an ironic half-smile. "Qui-Gon. I take it you have come to say good-bye."

The rooms were fastidiously neat, asceticism transformed to a severe luxury. Dooku's _collection_ was displayed upon the inset shelves. It had grown in size and diversity over the long decades.

"I need not explain my reasons to you," he said.

The older man circled round him once and then gestured to the cushions surrounding the low, richly engraved table. They sat. "Indeed not. I only wonder that you have delayed such foolishness till now. Of course, recent events may be catalyst to your wanderlust."

The thrust sank deep. Dooku twisted the blade slightly. "And your Padawan is due to be abandoned in favor of a new project."

"I did not abandon Xanatos… and I shall not _abandon_ Obi-Wan."

"Ah. Then he is accompanying you after all?"

A hesitance, which betrayed much to the other man. "I have reason to hope as much."

Having driven his point home and discerned that which he wished to know, Dooku relented. "I need not tell you what a rare talent the boy possesses. Nor what a future asset to the Order he would be. Perhaps even a present one."

A guarded smile. "No, you need not."

"Such material should not be wasted upon a fool's crusade," the Sentinel observed dispassionately.

Qui-Gon idly returned the salute. "You taught me well, master. The courts' antics are a symptom of advanced decay. I have no illusions about the Republic's sanctity and integrity."

"And here I thought you had learned nothing from me," Dooku returned, casually.

"You were once fond of saying that only a fool goes down with a sinking ship, master."

The silver-haired Jedi smiled tightly. "Only a ship piloted by a fool stands at risk of sinking. It is a problem of _leadership, _Qui-Gon."

"Mutiny. The perennial solution."

Dooku's brows crept upwards. "Call it what you will, my friend. Your solution resembles cowardly flight."

Bristling, Qui-Gon released his annoyance on a long breath. "Call it what you will, I act as the Force bids me."

The Sentinel held out his hands pacifically. "As do we all. Your absence will be felt by many," he added. "Take care that your quest is worth the cost to others."

Another man might have mistaken this sentiment for a veiled compliment. Qui-Gon merely nodded his head. Besides, there was no cost commensurate with the price he had already paid, no sacrifice unworthy the gain to be had, for self and others.

"I am grateful to you for your guidance in past years," he told his former master. "May the Force be with you."

They stood, and exchanged a single, formal bow.

"And with you, Qui-Gon."

Dooku saw him to the door, and closed the panel quietly behind him.

* * *

Qui-Gon was not at the south docking bay, nor the vehicle requisitions station inside the hangar level. Nor did he respond to com-link summons, the system reporting that his device had been permanently disabled. But the invisible bond that connected master and apprentice held true, oblivious to fate and will, a glimmering strand leading to the heart of a labyrinth.

Obi-Wan found him in the seldom-used grand entry plaza, outside the lowest level. Here the Temple's foundation seemed to float upon inverted columns, in defiance of gravity, an architectural feat based on the dictates of symbolism rather than pragmatism. The main stairwell was flanked by its massive guardians, two for skill, two for knowledge, two for the Force. Their carven faces looked on impassively.

"Master."

The tall man turned, wrapped still in his dark cloak. His weapon's hilt still hung at his side, and there was unspeakable relief in this simple fact.

There was even more relief in Qui-Gon's face. "Obi-Wan." And then a frown, as he noted that the young Jedi bore no belongings, no travel bag. "I see."

Silence fell like a hammer blow.

A warm breeze stirred about their cloak hems. Qui-Gon stepped closer. "You are not coming."

The Padawan's voice crumbled into a dry whisper. "Master. I will not forsake the Order."

The tall man raised a hand and ran fingers down the length of his learner's braid, the exquisite knot of their path together, the binding and compacting of student, teacher, the Force. "I had hoped to someday cut this," he said, at last.

Speech failed them both.

The stone guardians of the Way watched, stern and silent, upholding a tradition and responsibility heavier than any mere mortal heart could bear.

Qui-Gon regained his voice first. "I am proud of you today. You act as a Jedi… and a man. I am only sorry it must be under such circumstances."

Obi-Wan shook his head, misery glittering in blue-green eyes.

A battered public conveyance sidled up to the docking area at the stairs' base.

"Padawan." The Jedi master stepped closer, clasping his student by both shoulders. "I would prefer – I would be _honored_ by your company." There was an undercurrent of pleading in his tone, a harrowed thread of longing. His grip tightened. "I _must_ do what the Force wills."

The young Jedi drew in a shuddering breath. "So must I, master."

They stood at an impasse, strengths matched in opposition, common purpose and devotion binding them to part. The air-bus driver blasted the vehicle's horn, a blaring summons to depart.

Qui-Gon leaned forward, bestowing a formal kiss upon either of his Padawan's cheeks, the ritual benediction of peace between full ranking brothers in the Order. "May the Force be with you, always."

And pulling his cloak hood over a face drawn by acute pain, and lifting his one small bag in one hand, he strode away, descending the steps of the Temple with steady gait, not looking back.

Obi Wan stood there between the Pillars of Tradition for a long while, watching the after-image of his mentor descend the main promenade stairwell, mantled shoulders and head silhouetted in light as he descended into the soulless city-grid, into the sun-scourged desert of duracrete, the wasteland of civilization - the corrupt and decaying heart of the Republic, its so called "Jewel."

Qui-Gon seemed to descend into the underworld before his very eyes, and was swallowed by the unyielding horizon of the Temple's raised foundation, the edge of its profound dais, the slab upon which it stood enthroned as sentinel above a galaxy that no longer respected it. And then he was truly gone, and there was nothing but the lingering scent of ozone as the airbus lurched away into the sky overhead, and a dull aching in his jaw and throat.

He pulled his own cloak tight about his shoulders and proceeded back up the plaza, between the massive guardians, passing into the shelter of a home that had been emptied of its comfort.

* * *

The sun's last rays streamed upward form a scarred horizon, bleeding abundant crimson fire upon the Council chamber's domed ceiling. Elongated blue shadows fell into the circle's center, fingers pointing gravely to the momentous event there unfolding.

Yan Dooku had risen from his appointed place in the ring of Councilors and now stood at the focus of their attention, Obi-Wan a respectful pace behind. The silver haired Jedi's eyes traveled around the circle of his peers, gathering their approval or permission. None opposed him, though some few exuded a sense of _acceptance_ rather than outright approval. The Council's silent consent having been garnered, the Sentinel's grey eyes came to rest upon Mace Windu.

The Korun master spoke the words of the ceremony in a measured cadence, his deep voice undergirded by resignation. "Who shall speak for this Padawan, who has kept his oath and honor intact, and is recently bereaved of his master?"

Master Yoda's ears sagged downward, his narrow shoulders hunching as he released a heavy sigh.

Dooku lifted a single brow. "I claim the right of teaching lineage," he quietly proclaimed. "Qui-Gon Jinn was my own student. And I in turn shall speak for his former apprentice."

"So be it," Mace agreed, folding his hands. "If any harbor an objection, let it be spoken now."

But what exception could be taken to a thing done so properly, so in accord with tradition, and by a member of the Order so respected and influential? Indeed, there was little other recourse to be had; for a Padawan left behind by a known renegade was sure to come under suspicion of bad formation, a risk and liability not easily undertaken. If there was any equal to the task of guiding such a potentially scarred learner, it was one whose own reputation was above reproach. And Dooku had right of lineage.

Silence reigning in the darkening chamber, the Sentinel waved his young counterpart forward. Obi-Wan knelt before him, dark cloak pooling upon the inlaid mosaic. Dooku's elegant hands settled firmly upon his shoulders.

"With this Council and the Force as witness, I take Obi-Wan Kenobi as my Padawan learner."

"Obi-Wan," intoned Mace Windu, "Do you swear to obey, respect, protect, and learn from your master, as befits a Padawan of this Order, until you are released from this oath by death, or upon attaining the rank of Knight, or by act of this High Council?"

"I so swear."

A second silence.

"Then it is done." The young man rose to his feet, visage sober, eyes still cast downward.

"Go," Yoda grunted, waving a clawed hand at them. "May the Force guide your steps, master and apprentice upon one path. Go in peace."

Dooku executed his formal bow with his habitual consummate grace, and led the way out, his new Padawan trailing demurely in his wake, the subdued shadow of a solemn principality. Behind them, the sun sank below the ragged skyline and was swallowed in night.

* * *

"Put your things there," Dooku ordered, indicating the smaller and presently unoccupied bedroom in his quarters. "And then perhaps we should observe the obligatory rite."

Obi-Wan dropped his scant bundle of personal belongings upon the bare sleep couch in the second sleeping chamber and returned to the Sentinels' – his – quarters. Dooku waited for him, glittering eyes tracing his every movement.

"I'm ready… master."

He sank down before the older man, closing his eyes as a pair of aged but strong hands brusquely undid the ties about his braid, deftly unweaving the thin strands of chestnut, tugging the somewhat knotted hairs apart, beads and bands removed and set aside, years of cherished memory unraveled in a space of a minute.

Dooku smoothed the hair into three parts. "Teacher, student, the Force: these are one," he recited, beginning the plait anew from its very base, twisting a tight and perfect pattern, a melding of these new things, a partnership only hours old and yet years in the making, a pair of blades honed to a similar fiery edge, a rare pitch of intensity. The last marker was black, and fastened with a curt finality.

And when it was done, Dooku smiled upon his handiwork and bade his apprentice rise.

"We have much to accomplish together," he observed. "I look forward to it."

Obi-Wan bowed his head, the new braid dangling over his right shoulder, the black ribbon of bereavement a stark contrast against sun-bleached gold. They had much to accomplish, and he had nothing left to lose.

"Yes, master," he said.

* * *

END BOOK VIII


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